sooo i was scrolling through my docs and came across an almost finished wip of Wolves They Both Must Be part two that i wrote over a year and a half ago that i kinda sorta forgot about. i know i'm more active in my other fandom for the time being, but would anyone even be interested in reading a sequel to that one shot?
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I’m too excited about the next chapter of nothing sacred, all things wild so of course, I’m sharing probably far too much of the next chapter here...but guess what? I don’t care.
I’m just happy to be writing again! It’s been a crappy few weeks, I’m excited to be excited again.
A very long excerpt below the break:
“Two days at court, and still the king has not shown up to receive Lady Margaery. Perhaps the Tyrells really aren’t as powerful as they let on.” Myranda flicked open her fan with a vengeance, a trickle of sweat tracing down her hairline as she observed Margaery holding her parasol so it shaded Loras more than herself, while her brother, Garlen, and his wife, Leonette, sipped lemonade on either side.
An oppressive heat had settled over the city overnight, turning the red stones of the keep to burning coals, and wilting everything else, indiscriminately.
This had not stopped the princess, however, from holding court beneath the sun’s glare.
The flower arrangements withered in their vases, the peerage’s hair collectively lost several inches of volume, and every lord and lady unfortunate enough to have traveled with only their autumnal silks had to suffer in silence as they sweat through their brocade.
Ostensibly, there was to be a performance—a parade of animals, recently brought over from Essos to join the princess’s menagerie, though Sansa imagined the tigers would be as loath to march beneath the midday sun as the rest of them were. The heat was making her irritable. She disliked the feeling of her palm sweating against the lacquered wood of her fan that she kept closed at her side.
“It’s not just Margaery he hasn’t publicly received,” Anya remarked. “Stannis Baratheon has arrived as well, and I hear he’s fuming at the king’s absence.”
Randa snorted. “He certainly isn’t being subtle with his intentions, with the way he’s parading his daughter about. Poor thing. With that face, I’d never leave my chambers, let alone agree to half the peerage seeing me. No amount of powder can cover that, especially in this heat.”
Sansa watched the young woman standing just behind her father, the marred side of her face tilted into the slip of shade offered by a bougainvillea climbing the wall beside her, her eyes trained at her feet, ignoring the wide berth the other courtiers left her as they all waited for Daenerys to invite them beneath her canopied pergola; the only true respite from the relentless sun. Unfortunately, the princess had seemingly lost all sense of decorum or duty ever since a garishly dressed, blue-haired Tyroshi man had gone down on one knee before her and presented a violently orange monkey. It now sat perched on Daenerys’s delicate shoulder, eating berries from her hand as she joked with the man.
Rage trickled down Sansa’s spine.
“Shireen Baratheon is the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, and until our king sires a son of his own, she is the likeliest heir to the Iron Throne. Myranda, you may have a beauty that turns the heads of even the highest lords but you’ll never rise higher than the daughter of a steward. No amount of powder can cover that up either.” She didn’t look away from Shireen, or wait for Myranda’s reply. “Have there been any sightings of Lord Manderly’s ships, Lord Royce?”
After a rather violent clearing of the throat, the old man replied.
“I’ve heard nothing my lady, and I’ve got a boy paid to wait at the docks until they’ve arrived.”
“I don’t understand how the council is set to begin on the morrow and the Warden of the North isn’t present.”
“I don’t understand how the council is set to begin on the morrow and the king isn’t present,” Anya said. “Do you think something happened? His grace held a feast when you arrived, did he not? Now, he suddenly can’t be bothered to receive the very lords his reign depends on?”
Sansa ignored the older woman’s gaze, fixating instead on the princess, who cut a strawberry in two with her own teeth, before pressing each half languidly to the golden monkey’s black mouth.
Petyr used to press fruit to her lips too—when he called her daughter, and pulled her chair too close at the breakfast table.
“The king is throwing a feast for all the high lords tonight, Anya. I’m sure everyone will get the reception they are due at that time.”
“Still, it’s strange. You’d think he’d be using every possible moment to rub elbows and grease wheels before the real business of the council begins.”
“We have no reason to suspect he’s not, behind closed doors.”
“With whom? No one that I’ve spoken with has seen him since the morning of Robb’s arrival.” Anya’s gaze bore a hole in Sansa’s temple until at last she met the older woman’s stare with a slow blink of her own. She’d said nothing of Jon’s midnight proposal and offered no explanation for the boarded up panel along her bedroom wall.
There was nothing to say. The air grew too thick.
“The Princess of Dorne is not present,” Myranda whispered. “Perhaps the king’s business is with her.”
“Ah,” Anya sighed, opening her own fan. “If that is the case, the king may be conducting important business indeed—perhaps the most important kind.”
Hot air puffed at Sansa’s face. She swore it smelled of mint. She hated mint.
“What would it mean for us if he names her his queen?” Myranda asked.
“Nothing.”
“The Vale has no relationship with Dorne,” Anya answered, when it was clear Sansa wouldn’t elaborate. “At best, it means we stand exactly as we do today. Though, I expect whatever sense of kinship the king has for our lady that Sansa has not already destroyed, will only fade further beneath the brilliances of that Dornish sun. They say she is a great beauty.”
“Who is this ‘they’ everyone is always speaking of?” Sansa wondered aloud. “And what gives them so much authority?”
“If I knew you grew so piqued in the heat, my lady, I’d have advised you to avoid today’s gathering altogether.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
'Make me your Aphrodite, make me your one and only' A view of the King and Queen of the North, their marriage, love and connection … always / ONESHOT, Jonsa
Thank you, @amymel86 , I’ve been wanting to write something like this for a while. Hope you enjoy. 💛✨
(I couldn’t think of a title 😬)
Jonsa 5 Word Challenge One Shot:
“What was it like?” Sansa asked, her voice soft and quiet, yet cutting through the silence nonetheless. She sat next to Jon before the hearth, the windows swung wide open, winter wind sighing in.
“What was what like?”
A faint smile played on her lips when she looked down at the cup in her lap. She’d had more to drink tonight than he knew she could take, making her cheeks flush to a lovely pink. It felt like a lifetime had passed since they’d last seen each other on the docks of King’s Landing. The last time she’d been there she was only a girl, dressed in the finest silks, alone, and afraid. She told him once that she’d never go back there. Not for anything or anyone.
But she did go back.
For him.
Just so, he’d once said he was done fighting; said he’d go away to a place where it was warm. And then she asked him to go to war for her; for her home.
So he did. He found himself bloodying his knuckles again.
For her.
She licked her lips and met his eyes again. Her lids were low from the wine, her expression calm, her brow smoothed out. “Riding a dragon,” she said. “What was it like riding a dragon?”
Jon blinked at her and sat upright in his seat, caught off guard by the question.
“When I first saw you on the back of that beast, I...” Sansa shook her head softly as she looked into the fire, as if she could see the memory play out in the flames. “Just one wrong turn, one slip of your hand, and you’d be falling to your death or crushed beneath its wings.”
Had she been afraid for him? Worried for him? He was intrigued by the thought, and found himself wanting to hear more about what she thought.
“Were you worried for me, Sansa?” The words left him before he could stop himself, and Jon remembered he too was well in his cups, and should guard his tongue.
“Worried. Afraid. Jealous.” She shrugged and took a drink after that last word, gulping hard.
Jon raised his eyebrows at her. “Jealous? I can’t really imagine you’d want to be flying on the back of a dragon. They’re ferocious; being on one is like...well, it’s the scariest thing I’ve ever done. And I’ve died,” he said, trying his best to make her laugh. “Besides, you’d hate the way they hiss,” he said teasingly. “Awful sound, it is.”
She chuckled. “That’s not quite it,” she said, blushing an even deeper red that captivated Jon in a way he couldn’t understand.
“How do you mean it, then?”
Sansa huffed out a breath and pursed her lips before answering. “It felt like she had so much of you already. And I’d just gotten you—and our home, our family—back. It was just one more string she’d have attached to you that I—we—didn’t.”
Jon wasn’t sure he was understanding. He felt warm from the ale, his head light. Was she...
“You were jealous of Daenerys?”
A name he hadn’t spoken in ages.
Sansa shifted in her seat, obviously uncomfortable by his question. She rolled her eyes and said, “Is that so hard to believe? She walked in here and tried to claim what’s mine. Including you. You were my...”
“Your what?” He was enthralled by the words she let out so freely, and he wanted to know them. All of them.
“You were just mine. That’s all. My brother, my family, my protector. My friend.”
Something inside Jon crumbled in that moment. “Sansa, I...I never stopped being any of those things.”
And looking back on all of it, he realized he never gave her a reason to believe that she wasn’t losing him. He gave up their home and his crown. Two things which to Sansa, meant safety from harm from anyone ever again. Isn’t that what he had promised her? Isn’t that the reason he fought a war against all odds? No, it wasn’t so hard to believe. He felt awful just then, for being another person who let her down after she’d trusted him. After she’d trusted him. What could he say now to repair the hurt he caused in her? The hurt that he didn’t even stop to consider. There were no words he could use to turn back time and do things differently.
He put his cup down and fell to his knees before her, set her cup down and took her hands in his. “Sansa, you have to know...please tell me you know...if I could go back and change it, I would. I’d choose you from the beginning. You and Arya and Bran and Winterfell. Say you believe me, won’t you?”
Sansa looked down at him with wide eyes, brilliant blue like the ocean on a sunny day. She nodded slowly. “I believe you,” she whispered. “I always believed in you, Jon. Before you had a crown or a dragon or the name of a prince.” She took his face in her hands. And not for the first time did Jon find himself drunk and kneeling before a queen by firelight. Only this time was different. This time, he felt a blush creep up his neck from the way Sansa looked at him, felt his heart flutter with the words she spoke. “You made the right choice in the end. We’re all still standing. That’s what’s important.” She leaned down close to him, and Jon froze in place, not sure what to do. He felt her lips on his forehead, her hair brush the side of his face, the scent of her fill his nose, and his breath halted in his chest. She sat back up again, and wore the softest smile on her lips.
Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the way she looked at him and how her hair fell down over her shoulder like the sweetest treacle. Maybe it was the warmth of her hands, or the way she always said the right thing at the right time. Maybe it was because she called him hers, or the way they’d both do anything for each other. Maybe it was all of it all at once that made Jon realize that Sansa Stark was the best woman he’d ever know, the only one he loved enough to kill a tyrant for, and the only woman he’d ever call his queen ever again.
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Game of Thrones (TV)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Characters: Jon Snow, Sansa Stark
Additional Tags: post Battle of the Dawn, Canon Universe, Missing Scene, Drabble, super self-indulgent
Summary:
CH5: All Night
written for the @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles autumn drabble event!
Day 5: Frosty Mornings or AND Firelight
Read on Ao3
CH: 1 || 2 || 3 || 4
“I am completely stuffed.” Jon licked off the crumbs of the biscotti from his fingers. “That was incredibly delicious, Sans. Gods, I wish I could eat all night long.”
Sansa lifted a brow and smirked. Oh really?
“The food ,” Jon huffed.
After seeing his reaction to her grinding pun and rather enjoying his blushes, Sansa kept going with the innuendos. “Oh Jon, don’t you love whipped cream? I sometimes eat it straight from the can. I just love the taste of cream squirted on my tongue.” and “It’s great that I own a coffee shop isn’t it? I can have as much caffeine as I want so I have the energy to stay up all night long.” and the worst one (his favourite, actually, but he won’t admit it) “Is the drink too hot? I can cool it down for you, I’m really good at blowing hot things.” Jon shifted uncomfortably at that one. His jeans had gotten inexplicably tight, and it wasn’t from the food. Her tantalizing comments kept coming and unfortunately he did not.
Sansa giggled. “Aw, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you. I’ll stop, I promise.” Actually please don’t. Sansa leaned back on her palms. “So, now what? We’ve checked off hot chocolate, bonfire, fortunetelling, feasting.”
“Suppose all that’s left is a mummer’s play,” Jon may have been joking, but Sansa’s eyes lit up. “Wait. No no no, Sansa, I can’t act. You know I can’t act.”
“I happen to think you’d make a perfect King Finvarra.” she sniffed. “But fine. We don’t have any costumes anyhow.”
Jon snorted. “If I’m King Finvarra, then you’re Oona, High Queen of the faeries.”
She tilted her chin up. “If I am High Queen, then I demand you perform a play for me!” A sudden sound of a thunderclap shook the windows. Sansa shrunk. “Okay, clearly we should not be making fun of the fae queen right now. Else she’ll send her weather spirits again.” With a final stretch of her arms, Sansa lied down by the fire, facing Jon. After moving the tray of empty dishes on a nearby table, Jon followed suit. Turning on his side to look back at her, all Jon could see was her silhouette from the firelight. And it was a breathtaking image.
“Do you actually believe in all that? In the fae?” Jon was curious. He knew the Starks held a slightly more religious relationship with Samhain, but he never really asked about it.
Sansa took her time and thought about his question before answering. “Yeah, I think I do. I mean it explains a lot of the things that happen in our day to day lives, you know?” Seeing Jon’s slight head shake, she elaborated, “Like when you lose your keys and they magically turn up, or when you feel a breeze run through your hair and wonder if it’s alive.” Sansa rolled back to face the ceiling, “Or when it’s snowing and you feel the drifting snowflakes brushing your cheek, almost like a-”
“Like a lover’s kiss.” She could feel his heated stare on her and it made Sansa blush darker than she had all night. He was completely enraptured, and it thrilled her.
Still unused to this type of prolonged attention though, she cleared her throat. “Besides, my mother swears Rickon is a changeling. Says he’s too feral to be hers.”
Jon rolled on his back too and sniggered. “Oh, Rickon not Arya? Sometimes I swear she’s the most wild of us all.”
“Nah,” Sansa chuckled, “She may look like my dad, but Arya takes after our mother. Clever, resourceful, and incredibly feisty.”
“You know,” Jon said thoughtfully, “I’m always surprised when I think about how you two never got on when you were younger. You’re thick as thieves now.”
“It’s not that we didn’t get along per se, but what 9 and 11 year old sisters ever do? We were just so different and didn’t understand how to relate to each other. So we lashed out.” They lay in a comfortable silence until Sansa asked, “So what about you? Why don’t you believe in fae? In magic?”
“I dunno, I think it was just harder for me to believe in magic with my childhood, you know? Don’t get me wrong, I love my mum and I’m proud and happy at where we are now. It was just… unnecessarily hard.” He looked over to Sansa, bracing himself for the expected look of pity, but instead found none.
“Honestly Jon, fuck your dad. Your mother did an amazing job with you.”
Overcome with so much emotion, he reached out for Sansa and held her in a tight embrace. And that’s how they spent the rest of their night. Snuggled together by the firelight, talking about anything and everything until they fell asleep. A last thought lingered before he dozed off completely. Maybe I do believe in magic.
A rustling noise outside woke Jon up. Sometime during their slumber, the fire had died out and now the room was dark and chilly from the early morning frost that was seeping in. The windows were all fogged up, but he could see glowing lights dancing around the outside. No way. Before Jon could think anymore on them, Sansa began to stir. Having her stretch and moan, all while still pressed up against him, made Jon pleasantly uncomfortable.
“Good morning,” she croaked. Jon couldn’t see her face (they were still spooning) but her raspy voice made him more pleasantly uncomfortable. “What time is it?”
“I dunno, it’s still dark out. I’m guessing around 5 or 6?” he quieted down to listen for the familiar pitter patter. “And I think it’s still raining.”
Sansa shifted to snuggle closer to him and then chuckled, “Is that a stray biscotti or are you just happy to see me?”
Jon coughed.
Sansa bolted up and looked at him, a cheshire grin forming on her face, “You’re happy to see me. ”
