Jonsa Fanfiction

Mark your calendars, y’all! We’re about to do a thing…again!

October 1 - October 31, 2021 is going to be all about bringing the Jonsa feels. Each day of the month will feature its own topic, and all of the fan made things are more than welcome to be submitted! Fanfiction, fan art, fan videos, metas, etc. Have fun with it! You’ll just need to tag your submissions with #31DaysofJonsa2021 so that we can reblog it all here!

Yessss, we’re posting about this quite early, but we wanted to be able to give the fandom a chance to make everything, and we will continue to reblog this as a reminder for everyone! :) 

Now, to the fun part. The topics!! I made sure to add all of the topics that were submitted, plus a few that we admins wanted to see ourselves to the list. Share them, reblog them, prepare for them as you see fit. Check them out below:

October 1 - Costumes October 2 - Pregnancy October 3 - COVID/Lockdown related October 4 - First… anything October 5 - Roommates October 6 - Meeting in College October 7 - Meeting on Vacation October 8 - Sharing a bed October 9 - Birthday October 10 - First snow of the year October 11 - Wedding October 12 - Hopelessly Romantic Jon October 13 - Sneaking around October 14 - Dreams/Nightmares October 15 - Goodbye before battle or long journey October 16 - Trapped together October 17 - High school October 18 - Best friends to lovers October 19 - Argument October 20 - Taking care of someone (sick/injury) October 21 - Inspired by a song or lyric October 22 - PTSD October 23 - Enemies/frenemies to lovers October 24 - Smutty with a kink of your choice October 25 - Trying something new October 26 - Co-workers October 27 - Super fluffy October 28 - Angsty Teens October 29 - Jealousy October 30 - Moment including Ghost October 31 - Halloween Party

Part 2 of The Hero or the Monster in Her Story

You can read Part 1 on Tumblr or on AO3

Rated M.

Jon woke abruptly, as he so often did now, and proceeded to wipe the sleepy itch from his eyes. His slumber the night before had been fitful and restless.

About 1800 words.  This shipfic takes place between S06E09 and S06E10.  I may write more but consider this a one-shot to be safe.  Beware spoilers.

Jon Snow lay in his bunk, staring into the wall.  A fire still crackled and popped behind him, casting shadows around the bare room. He’d learned long ago not to watch the flames when trying to sleep, instead to focus on the darkest patch of brickwork he could find.  Even so, he was restless in spite of the slate-gray mortared bricks filling his vision.

Jon was exhausted. Fighting and killing Bolton men days before had worn him down to where he could barely stand, much less ride a horse or direct the reclaiming and rebuilding of Winterfell.  Sansa had taken up those responsibilities while he recovered, for which he had been grateful.  It was just as well; the rightful Lady of Winterfell should be the one to lead those efforts, not Ned Stark’s bastard.

So here he lay, the small room quiet except for the hearth’s deliberations.  Jon wished he could sleep and frowned, stone-faced, at the difficulty such pursuit warranted.  They had joked at the Wall that men would sleep when they were dead.  In Jon’s experience, that was a lie.

A demure knocking interrupted the quiet.  Jon started beneath the furs piled on top of him and reflexively reached for the dragonglass dagger Sam had left him; Longclaw was out of reach, so he kept the crude blade at his bedside.  It was a better weapon for the tight confines of his quarters than the hand-and-a-half sword.

In better days, Jon would not keep any killing tools by his bedside.  But the faces of dead men were still too clear in his thoughts, and he’d been caught with his guard down before.

He lurched from bed and stumbled, but settled his weight and stalked to the door.  He unfastened the lock and drew it open, careful to stay clear of the gap.

Jon swallowed and asked the darkness, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” a woman’s voice answered, haltingly.  “Sansa.”

Jon’s brow furrowed and he opened the door a little wider.  “You haven’t got a lantern?”

“I don’t need it.  Not here.  Could I come in?”

Confused, he stood aside and gingerly placed the dagger on a shelf.  Sansa did not notice it as she strode inside, or at least pretended not to. Jon shut the door, set the lock, and turned.

There was no mistaking her in the light.  Sansa stood taller than him, auburn hair braided loosely and thrown over a shoulder. She had no lantern, but carried a clay pitcher with both hands.  Jon waited patiently for her to speak as she turned her eyes to him.

“I can’t sleep,” she said slowly, “not here.  Not yet.”

Jon nodded cautiously. He’d thought Sansa would need time to get comfortable in Winterfell again, after all she had endured here.  But he had good sense not to ask her about it, figuring she would mention the problem when she was ready.

“Neither can I,” Jon admitted.  He crossed the room, careful to step aside Sansa’s skirts, and stoked the fire. “Want it built back up?”

“I would.”

Sansa’s eyes were dull and her mouth set in a thin line, so Jon busied himself with reviving the hearth. “Set that pitcher on the desk, if you like.  What’s in it?”  He added a dried log to the fireplace but, unsatisfied with its progress, broke up a peat brick and tossed it into the coals.

Sansa stepped next to where he crouched by the fire and offered a cup.  “Mulled wine.  The kitchens are short on spices, but it’s passable.”

Jon politely tilted his cup back and savored it.  “Best I’ve had in years.”  Jon stood and surveyed the earthenware cup in contemplation.  “The Old Bear loved it, but never shared with me.  Guess he thought it was a perk of command.”

“The Old Bear?”

Suddenly aware that Sansa was still standing, Jon hurriedly moved the room’s lone stool from its place at his desk for her to sit by the fire.  He talked as he worked.

“Lord Commander Mormont. Lady Mormont’s grandfather.  He was Lord Commander before me, I was his steward.”

“His steward?” Sansa asked inquisitively, and for the first time Jon looked hard at her.  She wore the wolf-hide cloak that was twin to the one she’d gifted him over her nightgowns.  As always her face drew his attention and he tried not to stare, but for the moment her mask had slipped.  A thin dark eyebrow rose in surprise and her mouth quirked with the beginnings of a smile that threatened to reach her eyes.  “You served the Lord Commander his meals?”

Jon smiled wanly in remembrance.  Hers was contagious.  “Aye, and fetched hot water for his bath.”  He gestured at the warming hearth.  “And kept a fire burning in his chambers, changed his sheets and blankets, and everything else the Lord Commander asked of me.”  Jon sunk to the floor near Sansa’s seat and stretched his legs out before the fire.

She drank and leaned forward, resting her free hand on her knee and cupping her chin.  Sansa’s blue eyes pierced into Jon over the rim of her cup. “That all seems beneath you.”

“I was a man of the Watch,” Jon explained, “I did my duty.  Then I died. Now I’m here.”

Sansa’s eyes flashed. “Is that how you got that?”  She traced the scar that crossed Jon’s eye with a finger drawn across her own brow.

“No, that was an eagle.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I were. Damned thing hurt.”

Sansa sipped her wine, not deigning to respond.  Minutes passed in silence before she spoke again.  “I hope your Old Bear had better wine than ale.”

Jon grinned at the memory of Sansa choking down the filth at Castle Black.  “I’m sure he did.”

“Was he kind to you?”

Jon thought before answering.  “He was patient.  I was too proud, then.  But he saved my life and I his, once.  Then I avenged him.  And he was kind, in his way,” Jon turned and gestured at his sword, which stood in its scabbard in a corner, ruby wolf-eyes glinting in the dark.  Sansa followed his gaze as he talked, “he gave me Longclaw. House Mormont’s Valyrian steel.”

“Do you think Lyanna wants it back?”

A pained expression crossed Jon’s face.  “I haven’t asked,” he sheepishly admitted.

Sansa gently shoved his shoulder.  “You’re terrible.”

“You’ve always said that,” Jon laughed, looking away and smiling.  “Remember when Arya and I threw snowballs at you?”

“Which time?”

“When Father rode off to White Harbor and Karhold with Robb, to show him the seas.”

Sansa nodded in recognition, teeth flashing in a brief grin.  “Jeyne and I had spent all morning practicing Southron braids, and you two just ruined our work.”  Her face stilled and darkened.  “Father thought the next Warden of the North should know the limits of his domain.”

“He did,” Jon said quietly.

Sansa still hadn’t moved her hand from his shoulder, and he found himself leaning into it.

Her voice was firm. “He would be proud of us.”  She squeezed his shoulder in punctuation.

Jon’s voice was guarded. “Have you been down to the crypts yet?”

“I haven’t.”

“I had fresh torches sent down this morning.  The Boltons let them burn out.”

“That’s good of you.”

Sansa straightened and held her cup with both hands, leaning again towards the fire.  They endured the awkward silence until it became comfortable again.

“You really should make an offer to Lyanna,” Sansa appealed.

Jon sighed.  “It’s on my list.”

“It’s a terrible dishonor, for a family to lose its Valyrian steel.  The Lannisters took ours and melted it down.”

That got Jon’s attention. “They destroyed Ice?”

“Tywin Lannister had it reforged,” Sansa said, “it was enough steel for two swords.  He gave one to Joffrey and its twin to the Kingslayer. Lady Brienne has one of them, now.”

“Maybe we should ask for it back.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “So I can wield it?”

“Maybe,” Jon replied quickly.  Sansa did not answer that so he turned to look at her again, catching her in a rare state of surprise.  He shrugged beneath her stare and explained, “Winter is here, and the enemy is marching. We’ll need every bit of Valyrian steel we’ve got.”

Sansa sniffed.  “The sword would be in better use in Brienne’s hands,” she paused to draw breath, then added evenly, “but if you think I should learn some skill at arms, you will teach me.”

It was Jon’s turn to be surprised.  “Me?”

“Yes,” Sansa answered confidently, “we have no master-at-arms, and you were always Ser Rodrick’s best student.  He said so.”

“When did he tell you that?”

“He visited mother’s sewing circle often.  She wanted to know how you boys’ education progressed.

“But as Lady of Winterfell,” Sansa sped on smoothly, not letting Jon respond, “you are a guest in my home.  You’ve taken my bread and salt, Jon, and I expect you’ll honor me.”

“Always.”  Jon drew his legs up and leaned on his knees, but did not meet her gaze.

Sansa took their empty cups and set them aside, then hung her cloak on an iron hook in the wall next to Jon’s.

She moved the stool and sat next to him on the floor, crossing her long legs.  He carefully turned to meet her eyes.

“Hey,” she said quietly, “we’re home.”  She took his hand in her own.

Sansa was convincing someone, but Jon knew it wasn’t him.  His fingers felt warm against hers, and initially he kept his locked tight together.  But she gently – insistently – threaded hers through his, and they sat there a while together, watching the sparks dance in the hearth.

Jon’s throat was drier than he’d felt in a lifetime, but he soldiered through it.  He stubbornly looked away from her.  “You can rest here tonight.  The bed is yours.”

Sansa’s grip tightened gratefully.  “I’d like that.”

“I’ll stay here by the fire, just give me one of the furs.”  His speech was hurried.

“You’ll be comfortable?”

Jon nodded, his mind in a cave beneath the Wall.  “I’ve stayed in worse.”

Sansa exhaled and stood, loosening her hold on him.  He didn’t move as she stepped to the bed and returned with a thick blanket, setting it around his shoulders.  She retired to the bed and reclined beneath its layered furs.  The sensations of it felt more like home than in her own quarters: the warmth where Jon had lain earlier, the soft, combed furs, and the faint scent of juniper berries.  This was their home.  There were Starks again in Winterfell.

She watched him sprawl before the fire beneath the blanket, a wolf’s shape in the dark. “Thank you, Jon. Good night.”

Well okay! Just modern.

As there seems to be an influx of lovely new shippers, we thought it might be useful to let you guys know about the great events taking place in the fandom…..

Jonsa Countdown - Hosted by @jonsa-countdown 1-16th July

Jonsa S7 Summer Challenge - Hosted by @jonsa-creatives 10-16th July

^^These two have already happened - you can check out the fantastic contributions to both by visiting @jonsa-countdown and by taking a look at the Summer Challenge’s master list HERE

Jonsa Exchange - Hosted by @jonsaexchange - all year, bi-monthly. These guys have already had an amazing ‘first round’ - you can check out all the entries on their July master list HERE

JonxSansa Remix - Hosted by @jonxsansafanfiction - 1-7th September *tbc

Jonsa Week - Hosted by @jonsa-week - 22-28th October

“Can’t you just…I don’t know, use your brain signals and find out where she is?” Jon asks as he and Sansa speed down the highway in one of the Professor’s cars.

“My brain signals?” Sansa echoes with a mocking smile.  "No, my brain signals cannot pick out a single person in a city of millions.“

"Don’t laugh at me.  It’s not like I know how this works.”

“I don’t suppose asking has ever occurred to you?”  Smoothing her hands over her jeans, Sansa adds, “Besides, I’m only here to help.  Arya trusts you.  She’ll come back with you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Arya is an incredibly powerful mutant who doesn’t understand her powers or how to control them.  She’s also sixteen, which means she’s loaded with hormones that will strengthen those abilities during intense feelings.  So in case of emergency…”  Sansa shrugs and smiles.  "I’ll knock her out with my brain signals.“

Jon steals a look at her out of the corner of his eyes.  ”You can really do that?”

Sansa meets his gaze, a challenge in her eyes.  ”You can’t begin to imagine what I can do.”

Voice rough with desire, Jon counters, “I’ve got a hell of an imagination, sweetheart.”

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, their background stories or the world in which they live. That belongs to George RR Martin, HBO and all other affiliates. I do not claim any of those as my own creations. This is simply a work of imagination. Furthermore, all characters in the story are consenting adults (at least 18 years of age).

Rating: Mature Characters: Jon Snow, Sansa Stark Fandom: Game of Thrones, ASOIAF Relationship: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark

Summary: A collection of drabbles and oneshots - missing scenes - with Jon and Sansa. They will range from 6x04 to the present season, and may be out of order from time to time as I will write one when a prompt is submitted for it or when an idea strikes. Hope you don’t mind that! xxoo

*Below is a “missing scene” between Jon x Sansa set in episode 6x04.

Mentions of Ramsay being “a monster” and the fact that Sansa has “injuries.” No graphic details. Just that.*

Also posted at AO3.

Chapter 1 - 6x04 “Missing Scene” #1

He shows her to the Lord Commander’s chambers quickly following their reunion in the courtyard, his brow furrowing in concern as he feels her lean heavily against him, her limbs trembling as they move slowly up the stairs and toward the door. He has no idea what has caused her to flee for The Wall, but he’s positive that it is something that will not be pleasing to learn of.

Her lady knight - Brienne of Tarth, as she’d been introduced to him - follows them quickly to the chambers, concern painting her face as well, and Jon knows that something is not right.

“Lady Sansa,” the knight says, stepping forward, quite obviously ready to shove Jon from the room if she is commanded to do so. “We must get you warm… and dry. Your,” she pauses, her eyes moving to Jon and back again. “Your injuries need to be properly assessed now that we’ve arrived safely.”

Jon’s eyes widen, his gaze quickly roams over Sansa’s face, taking in her immediate blush and the way that she makes a point of looking everywhere but into his eyes.

“I’ll be fine, Brienne,” Sansa replies, a tone of finality taking over. She pushes herself out of Jon’s protective hold and she smiles reassuringly at them both. It’s as though a mask has been slipped over her face. “I only need to spend some time in front of a fire.” She glances down at herself, a look of disgust crossing her features before she covers it up once again. “And perhaps a bath. Go have a rest, Brienne. I’ll be safe here.”

Brienne looks nearly ready to argue, a war waging behind her eyes and that makes Jon tempted to ask her to stay. Duty wins her inner battle, however, and the knight nods before disappearing through the door once again.

Jon brings his hesitant gaze back to Sansa as soon as they’re alone again, and swallows hard against the lump of dread forming in his throat. “Injuries,” he inquires quietly.

Sitting herself slowly into a chair in front of the fire in his chambers, Sansa tries in vain to reassure him with a grin. “She’s unnecessarily worried, Jon. My ankle is a bit swollen from my… escape.” She lifts the bottom of her skirts slightly, showing him her ankle which is more than a bit swollen, and quite bruised as well. Jon’s brow furrows, and he crouches down beside her to look at it. “Theon and I jumped from the battlements at Winterfell, you see, and I twisted it when I landed. I’ll be fine.”

“This is not fine, Sansa,” he says, gently guiding her ankle to bend and move in his hands. He shoots her an apologetic glance when he hears her sharp intake of breath, but continues to try to work out the stiffness he feels in the joint there. “There is no maester here any longer. Sam Tarly – my br-friend – has traveled to the Citadel for study to become the next. It looks very badly sprained.” He pauses, his eyes traveling up to her face again. “You jumped from the battlements? You are lucky to have survived a fall that high.”

Sansa nods, looking away from him and into the fire. “I had to, Jon,” she bites back, her tone turning cold and forceful. “Ramsay… he’s a monster.”

“Ramsay…Snow?” Jon’s confusion is evident.

“Bolton,” she corrects with disgust. “His father legitimized him.” Sansa pauses, a thoughtful expression taking over her face. As though she is trying to read Jon, make sure of his loyalty. He must pass the test after a moment because she eventually decides to elaborate. “Littlefinger, after he helped me escape Kings Landing and then took me to my Aunt in the Vale… he brought me to them - the Boltons. He made some sort of deal with them - sold me to them, forced me into a marriage with Ramsay… for an heir and an alliance between our families. For power.” She swallows hard, shakes her head as if to rid herself of awful memories. “Ramsay is a monster, Jon.”

Jon licks his lips, his hands on her ankle stilling for a moment. He consciously tries to keep his eyes upon her face, not wanting to upset her further by allowing them to roam. Though he wants so terribly to search her for more injuries. He now knows that there are more - has a feeling there are many more.

He has no idea what to say to make this better. No idea what he is supposed to do next in a scenario such as this. Jon’s mind quickly goes back to Sam, and to Gilly. To the way she’d suffered at her own father’s hands; to the way Sam adamantly took care of her, knew exactly what to do to help her. Oh, how he wishes Sam were here now. He would know exactly what Jon should do to make this better for Sansa. Because as far as Jon can see, all that seems right is to march south and kill both Ramsay Bolton and Baelish with his own two hands.

“So there is more than the ankle, then. He hurt you,” is the first thing to come flying from his mouth and his face conveys how stupid he feels in asking.

Sansa’s lips tick up at the corners, a sad smile of sorts showing itself. “Yes,” she whispers, eyes shimmering with tears. “I cannot go back to him, Jon.”

Jon was furious.

“Sansa! This is not a beginner class!”

Sansa had talked him into the “four weeks free” offer her dance studio had for salsa classes.

He’d agreed because his Wednesday nights were open, now that his LSAT class was over. He could “use the break” as his gorgeous, red-headed, completely platonic roommate kept reminding him.

Also, honestly, because the thought of being close to her made his head swim.

In the good way.

At least he thought it was the good way, until he’d stepped onto the “floating bamboo floor”, whatever that was. He heard the teacher rattle off a rapid-fire eight count and realized he was coming in at the middle of a four-week session, not the beginning.

And these people definitely knew how to dance.

The teacher was a stunner too - a lithe and striking man with muscles defined in places Jon didn’t even know existed.

Sansa nudged him. “See, the teacher’s as short as you!”

“You are not helping,” he hissed.

Read more below or on AO3