Jonsa Week— Fairy Tale

The Heart is a Haunted House

She should hate him. She should. And yet, she wanted so desperately to protect him— If she had the power, Sansa would tear open her own ribs to hollow out her chest, letting him curl safely beneath her bones. Her flesh would wrap around his flesh; her life would nourish his life; her death would be the shield that warded off his own. Or, As Winterfell falls and the dead rise from the very earth they call home, Sansa Stark seeks a final mercy in the dark of the crypts.

When Jon Snow crawls to her side, broken and bleeding, they find their end not in the frost of the White Walkers, but in the warmth of a final, forbidden sanctuary.

Read it here on AO3 (3.9k)

(...) It would be nothing like the Red Keep, she knew. During Queen Daenerys' coronation, a beautiful yet sensible affair, Sansa herself could barely enjoy the festivities, for each corner of that place was attached with horrific memories. It was no different in the Eyre, where she played so beautifully her part of a grieving – and mildly relieved, as it was requested of her – widow as she helped her Sweetrobin ease into his transition from a boy to a Lord. It was nothing like Winterfell, either; the halls of her golden childhood and her monotoned adulthood. A new place to explore, with people to meet and new impressions to make. How exciting would it be to soon enough shed the widow’s facade and become a Tully of Riverrun! How relieving would it be to spend her days without the heavy frown of the northern lords, or their judgmental stares.  (How wonderful would it be to breathe air he did not.) (...)

Chapter 3 of my modern Jonsa fanfiction Fall Without Aim is on ao3 now! Jon and Sansa lost the rest of their family but they always had each other. Now the brother and sister are so close, they can't seem to make a relationship with anyone else work.

Preview:

As much as he hated Sansa being with Waymar, the last thing he wanted was Sansa hurt. Jon took her in his arms on instinct. “I’m sorry, Sansa,” he told her. And he was. And he wasn’t. “Are you alright? What do you need?” Jon reveled in the feeling of Sansa in his arms, trying to quiet the insistent voice inside telling him he didn’t have to share her now.

Jon and Sansa are the most important people in each other's lives. Their past partners couldn't understand it, or maybe they understood too well…

Read it here!

lannisport weekend package (includes husband)

[11:17, 25/12/2025] Sansa Stark: morning

[11:17, 25/12/2025] Sansa Stark: did you survive? 

[11:43, 25/12/2025] Jon (Robb): Barely. I feel like twenty trucks rolled over me. 

[11:45, 25/12/2025] Sansa Stark: grandma Lyarra asked if you'd join for the leftover lunch

[11:45, 25/12/2025] Jon (Robb): Sansa. 

[11:45, 25/12/2025] Jon (Robb): I can't look at water without wanting to puke. 

[11:46, 25/12/2025] Sansa Stark: so I guess that's a no? she already poured your cup of brandy.

[11:46, 25/12/2025] Jon (Robb):If I leave my bed today it will be too much. 

[11:46, 25/12/2025] Sansa Stark: oh well. I'll tell her then. 

[11:46, 25/12/2025] Jon (Robb): Please don't. She'll make fun of me next time. Tell her I sprained my ankle or something. 

[11:47, 25/12/2025] Jon (Robb): Better yet, that I died. Maybe then she will pity me. 

[11:51, 25/12/2025] Sansa Stark: too late. she says you need to grow a pair and get back here. 

[11:53, 25/12/2025] Jon (Robb): I want divorce. 

[11:53, 25/12/2025] Sansa Stark: sorry, I'm a widow. no post mortem divorce in the contract. 

She’s been lost without him.

So when he arrives on the arm of the beautiful Targaryen queen, she’s jealous. She seethes with it, in truth, but she’s careful to keep her face passive as he greets their beloved younger brother. No one would ever know that both her heart and soul were at war with her mind. When he embraces her next, it is as familiar as ever, his lips at his ear whispering words meant only for her… Trust me… 

She trusts him more than anyone in this world, but she is jealous all the same. Angry, even, as the haughty dragon queen approaches where she stands. “Lady Stark,” the silver haired woman speaks, lilac eyes haunting in their stare. “The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed, as are you.” She means to compliment, but it does not quite reach her eyes, and Sansa is suddenly reminded of Joffrey. The face of the golden haired prince flickers before her eyes like the worst of nightmares and she steadies herself against the memory, against the cold realization that she must endure it again, as she once did in King’s Landing. 

“Winterfell is yours, your grace,” she says, coldly, politely, watching as her nostrils flare; the first sign of danger. She’s been here before, she knows, but she has faced worse than this dragon queen in Joffrey and Littlefinger and Ramsay. Eyes flicker and she meets Jon’s gaze, strong and true, as it always had been. Her heart softens and she for a moment that perhaps all could be well once more. But then, he follows Daenerys Targaryen, walking past her and their family as if they’d not been standing there at all. 

Her heart turns over and she feels it turning to stone, just as it once had been. 

[ x x x ]

In the aftermath of the first meeting with the Northern lords, she finds herself striding down the hall, away from it all, away from him. 

“Sansa, wait,” he’s calling for her, having rushed away from the Targaryen queen, knowing he wanted nothing else but a moment with her. A moment alone. A moment like how they once used to be. “Please.” She hesitates at his plea, shoulders quaking, turning around to face him from where she stands at the end of the corridor, far from his reach. “Please, let us speak,” he says and he sees she is softening, sinking, becoming the woman he left behind. The woman he had not hurt. 

“What is there to say?” She hisses, scathingly, cutting him deeper than any knife ever could. 

“Sansa, please,” he is a wounded man, but he knows if they only just spoke, she might understand what he means to do. There is a part of him that knows this was for the best- the more she hated him, the more believable he was to Daenerys, but… He cannot stand the thought of her hating him, of her letting him down. He had promised to protect her, but at what cost…? The cost of their very relationship?

“Your queen will be missing you,” she spits and turns on her heel, disappearing down the hall before he can speak another word. When she’s out of sight, the tears begin to flow, one by one until she cannot stop them. Until she is sobbing, great, wracking sobs that make her chest ache, that leave her breathless as she slams the door to her chamber closed and sinks down to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest. 

There she will stay, missing supper, crying until she can cry no more, hating herself for every tear she has shed, hating herself for not being stronger than this. 

[ x x x ]

When the white walkers are spotted, he knows it will soon be time. 

And so he seeks her out, but she is in none of her usual spots, so he finds himself growing frantic as he roams the corridors. “Lord Royce!” He barks as the sight of her most loyal advisor comes into view when he rounds a corner, his harsh tone startling the man. “Where is Lady Stark?” Jon softens his tone, apologetic in his gaze as he comes to stand before him. “I cannot find her.” 

“I seem to think she went to the godswood, my lord,” Lord Royce replies, his tone chilly; like all those loyal to Sansa alone, he has grown cold to him. He cannot blame them. In truth, he’s overjoyed to know she has such loyal folk about her. 

“Thank you,” he replies and heads off, escaping out the doors and into the courtyard, where even now men work tirelessly to ensure they are ready for the fight that was to come. 

Sure enough, down the path towards the godswood, he finds footsteps in the freshly fallen snow, ones which he follows until she comes into view, sitting on the old log beneath the heart tree, a heap of black skirts against the pure white snow. She looks up as he approaches, but she does not move, does not look upset nor even angry, rather, for the first time since he’s returned home, she looks almost happy to see him. Almost. 

“Sansa,” he breathes, chest heaving, fists clenching at his sides. 

“Jon,” she speaks softly, carefully, blue eyes meeting his gray. 

“White walkers…” He says, as if this explains everything, but she looks at him puzzled, telling him she does not understand. “They’re close. The battle… it’s close.” Now she understands and fear flickers across her face. Jon takes another few steps towards her, so now he stands just in front of her, his solemn gray eyes wild with worry. “We must return inside.” He offers her his hand and she does not hesitate to reach for it, allowing him to draw her up and onto her feet again. She holds fast to his hand then, the closest they’ve been since he returned. 

“I’m afraid,” she admits in a voice he’s not heard her use since she found him all those months ago at Castle Black. 

“I will protect you,” he reminds her, just like old times. 

Her eyes fill with tears and she turns away, because after all this time, he says what he’s always said, and she has allowed jealousy to fill her heart. “I don’t deserve it,” she whispers, tears streaking her cheeks, the icy cold sharp against her skin as it blows. 

“Sansa, look at me,” he speaks sharply, but not from anger, his hand on hers giving it a tender squeeze, forcing her back his way. “I promised I would protect you and the North, that is what I intend to do.” He thinks of the truth, tucked deep into his heart, the truth of his birth and the truth of his feelings, wondering which one would come out first. “I love you,” he says, simply, easily, words he’s said before, it was true, but never in this sense. “I love you, Sansa.” He repeats, laughing, grinning, wondering what would come of the truth falling from his lips in this way.

It takes but a split second for her to fall into his arms, burying her face into his chest, breathing in his ever familiar scent. “I love you, too,” she whispers, the truth that’s been in her heart all this time finally free. 

“There’s something else…” He thinks now may not be the time, not when there was much to do, much to prepare for. “When the battle ends, I will find you, and I will tell you everything.” She tilts her head back and their eyes meet, a long moment that passes only when she finally nods, understanding.

“Then promise me this…” She says, clutching tightly to the front of his cloak, her heart beating a thousand beats per second. “Promise me you will return to me.” He chuckles softly, nodding, knowing only the gods themselves could ever keep her from him now. He leans in then and captures her mouth with the kiss he’s always wanted to give her, a kiss which he hopes says everything his words could not in this moment. When he draws back, she is smiling, blushing, and he takes her by the hand, to lead her back to Winterfell. 

To lead her back to safety. 

[ x x x ]

When the fight ends, he seeks her out, uncaring of what the world around them might whisper. 

She comes up out of the crypts with the others, the proof of her tears on her cheeks, the proof of her fear reflected in her eyes. But then, from across the courtyard, their eyes meet and everything else is forgotten. “Jon!” She gasps, rushing across the yard to reach him, holding his injured body at arms length. He was badly burned, bleeding, bruised, but he was alive. “You’re alive,” she chokes on her words, on her tears, sinking into him despite all of the eyes that can see them there together. 

“I promised, didn’t I?” 

Her tears overflow and she’s in his arms, thankful for this moment, thankful to be alive. 

[ x x x ]

When the feast ends, he’s drunk and alone in his chambers. 

The dragon queen has only just left and he knows from this moment on, everything would change, everything would be different. Harder, he knows, it would all be harder, but he will accept it… For her. 

So when she knocks upon his door a short while later and it swings open, she steps inside, still wearing that scaled gown she had on during the feast. She is drunk, he can see at once, from her reddened cheeks and unstable steps. “I thought you might have gone to bed,” he says and she laughs, shaking her head. 

“Not before I saw you.” 

Those words resonate with him and he reaches for her, drawing her in, breathing her in. This moment was theirs because they’d won the battle, because some had died, because some had sacrificed their own lives to save them all. And there it was, in the back of his mind, a reminder of what he had to tell her. “Sansa… There’s something we must speak of.” He sobers, drawing away from her, enough so he might hold her at arm’s length. 

Sensing the shift in his tone, Sansa nods, allowing him to lead her from where they stand to instead sink down onto the edge of his bed. For a long moment, there is nothing but silence, perhaps as Jon fights to find the words to say. “Just say it,” she encourages him softly, for there could be nothing he could ever say that would change what was between them. Not now. Not ever.

And so he opens his mouth, weaving for her the very same tale that Sam had told him, that Bran had confirmed. When he finishes, she’s staring at him with those wide, blue eyes, her rosy lips slack with surprise. “Jon…” She breathes his name in the way she always has, her hand reaching for his, so small yet it covers his as if it were made to fit perfectly. “You know what this means…” He raises his gaze to meet hers and he nods, because yes, yes he does know. 

It means everything had to change. 

“It means I’m no Stark,” he tries to jest, bringing her back to their conversations from so many months ago, when he had tried to tell her the very same thing and she’d shook her head and told him he was wrong. You are to me. 

And just as she’d done then, she does it now. 

“You are a Stark,” she says sharply, giving his hand a tender squeeze. “It doesn’t matter if Ned Stark was your father or not, he shielded you from the world like a real father would do. He protected you as much as he protected all the rest of us. Besides… Lyanna was a Stark and so are you, too.” He looks away, shamed by the single tear that streaks his cheek, shamed by how she points out the obvious that he could not see, for so blinded he’d been by the loss of Ned Stark as his father. 

Tenderly, her hand reaches out, erasing any trace of the tears he’d shed, and slowly, he turns back to look at her. He loves her, he knows it, but in this moment it is solidified in a way he could never put to words. “I love you,” he says, simply in case she’s somehow forgotten. A smile curves on her lips and she puts her hand to the curve of his cheek, his stubble rough against the soft skin of her palm. 

“I love you,” she murmurs back, leaning in to share a long, lingering kiss, one quite unlike all the others before. “Tell me…” She whispers next, drawing back so she might look at him in his Stark gray eyes. “Does she know?” Jon nods, silent, and a sigh escapes her. “And she’s yet to kill us all… Then perhaps she is not as awful as I imagined.” Jon cannot help but to chuckle and she flashes a smirk, rising up from the bed to walk across the room to the window. Standing there, she looks out into the darkened night sky, so clear that she can see the stars glimmering white against the black; she cannot recall the last time she could see the stars so clearly, a sign, she would say later, a sign of what was to come. “You know what we must do, then, surely…?” She says softly, turning around to face him, the moonlight illuminating her from behind.

By then, Jon had risen up as well, approaching where she stood at the window. He sobers, nodding, wishing it could be different, but knowing… He had sworn to protect her, to protect the North, and this surely would be the only way. “Aye,” he whispers and he reaches for her, drawing her tightly into his arms. 

When Jon was a little boy, mom had sat him down and told him that their family had a special gift. A polite way to put it, since it's not really a gift. More like a curse. "It's normal to want to help them," mom had told him, holding his little hand in hers. "It's normal to be curious and want to talk to them, but you can't. You have to pretend you don't see them."

An older pic I did for the adorable fic Red by the brilliant writer @amymel86

Mermaid Sansa!

Jon Snow Creators Event - Day 03 - fairytale AU

Read HERE!

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Game of Thrones (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark Characters: Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, Anguy the Archer (A Song of Ice and Fire) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Sirens, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Mythical Beings & Creatures Summary:

Chapter ??

JON

He shifted around the body pressed against him, curling tighter around her waist. He could smell the dust and sweat at the base of her neck, where his lips rested. Home. He stretched a paw, and gave a start when five fingers flexed in response. His eyes snapped open to a head full of dark copper hair. Ygritte, he thought blearily. Visions of disembodied arrows sailed through his head. They ought to mean something to him, he was sure.

Ygritte slept deeply next to him. His eye swept over her body. He had never seen her in wool, only furs. Jon lowered himself to breathe in her scent once more. He could smell the dirt and grime upon her skin from hard travel, but the smell of furs was faint. No matter, he would soon hear from her the journey she had made to Castle Black. Taking one last deep breath, he made to stand. He was comforted by the scent of someone familiar.

He was startled once again to find long slender limbs beneath him, pushing himself up. He stumbled to the door to find a cold tray of food waiting for the pair of them. He ate without tasting.

After what he had done to that man upon waking, they had left him in this room with the least amount of contact possible. Jon wondered idly if the man would ever regain the use of his arm after what Jon had wrought him.

My watch is over.

He had seen hide nor hair of the Lady Melisandre since he had been ripped from Ghost. Oh, how he would like to see her, to crush her neck between his fangs, to laugh in her face, to beg her for an explanation. To tell her just what it was like in the realm of the gods. How her precious fire lord was no more than a red suggestion amongst the shifting, massless things that had shared their time with him.

He can still feel them, in the corners of his vision, at the edges of his breath. They watched now, even as he stumbled around in search of his breakfast. They had watched then, through his wolf eyes.

As he straightened from eating, he heard the shifting of fabric and turned to see Ygritte waking up. He watched in the weak light as she sat up, reddish hair falling over her back, limbs elongating and torso stretching past what he knew to be right. He stumbled a step back. Melisandre? But as the woman turned her face towards him, it was not the face of Melisandre, nor of Ygritte, but a lovely face, which he could not place for all that it was familiar.

The lady rose, and made her way to him. She slowly reached out, lightly grazing his face. Her hands were softer than he remembered Ygritte hand’s, and cooler than Melisandre’s. Her eyes were a deep blue, and her hair was darker than Ygritte's upon second look. He stood stock still, mind churning. Surely he would remember a face as lovely as this. He tried to remember how to remember but all that stared back at him were those deep blue eyes.

“What have they done to us, Jon? We’re all that’s left. My lady mother and our father, Robb, Bran and Rickon. They’re all gone, Jon. And Arya, too.”

“Arya?”

The lady slowly gave a nod.

It all rushed back to him at once; the note, breaking his vows, the pain as the blade sunk into his belly. The letter. I want my bride back.

Arya.

He spun on his feet and was at the door in a second. The door shook and rattled as he clawed at it, the taste of blood in his mouth and red in his vision. Arya. He was aware of howling, and yelling, and the sound of a woman’s warbling voice. The door gave no inch, though he pounded and kicked with all his might. Threw himself at it over and over. Arya. After long minutes he heard shouting from the other side, and calls for ‘My lady!’ in panicked voices.

“All is well, I am alright! Pray, do not open the door!” Lady called.

He spun on her, snarling and biting. Her eyes were big as moons as he seethed in her face. Arya—his sister. I want my bride, I want my bride, I want my bride. He had to find her. Must find her. Damn this cage! And this woman. Who was she to know what had happened to Arya? Why was she even in here. Was this some cruel jape by his former brothers? He was a vow breaker thrice over, and here a red hair maid. Would they see him add to his list of sins? She was no shield maiden, and he could make quick work of her. Sink his fangs into her—no, he could use his hands. He had hands. One was stretching towards her now.

A moment’s hesitation, and she asked, “where is Ghost?”

“ I am Ghost”

I am a wolf. I am a beast.

“No you’re Jon.” She said softly. “And I haven’t seen Ghost. Is he…”

But he was a wolf. He could smell the fresh winter air, and felt the crunch of snow beneath his paws, his muzzle to the ground, ears pricking up at the snap of a branch. The scent of prey filling his nostrils. He spotted a hare, white as the snow sparkling around it, and he was off, chasing, pouncing, clamping down on it’s neck, soft fur on his tongue, hot blood flowing into his mouth, down his throat. The Lady exhaled quietly, and suddenly he was back in the room, the smell of the old rushes, dust, stale urine, and the sweet scent of a woman invaded his nostrils.

He had been a wolf. He wished he still was in this moment.

The Lady walked slowly over to his cot, and sunk down atop the furs, watching him. He began pacing the room, ears flat against his head, his hackles up. The memories of what had come before accosted him, so jumbled and confusing, he could not account for any of them. More, he could not recall why he had been pounding at the door. He was forgetting something. The heat of his blood turning cold and sticky against his clothes, running with a pack of wolves, their paws thundering on the ground, auburn hair in the falling snow. The smell of honeyed chicken mixed with the taste of ash, Tully blue eyes scorned him from on high as he lost himself in hair kissed by fire, her hands combing through grey fur as she sang to herself. A princess in a tower. Stick them with the pointy end. And over and over again; the feeling of cold metal slipping between his skin. Tears.

Jonsa Fairy Tale AU

LITTLE MERMAID AU: