#rose...thou art sick

Thank you! I love writing Sansa and Jon in this fic. It's really fun to explore their characters when they are closer to my actual age 😅. So, I don't have any plans to abandon this story. Unfortunately, I'm just not finding much time to write anything lately, which makes me very sad.

And yes, Jon is giving strong "step on me, Sansa" vibes and I'm glad there is at least someone else in the fandom besides myself who enjoys that dynamic.

Jon's whole vibe in this fic:

End of the year

Thank you! I still have your other ask about I Just Think I'll Scream, which made me laugh and which I fully intend to respond to with a snippet of the next chapter, so for now I'll share something from another WIP. It's a drafted scene from Rose...Thou Art Sick, but it's written in the wrong verb tense for the fic and its way ahead of where I actually am in the story 😅.

Context: Sansa is a producer on a show like the Bachelor. Jon is the Bachelor. After a night off with friends, Sansa comes back to the resort where they are filming:

From the next chapter of my reality television WIP: 

“Excuse me,” Jon was suddenly at her shoulder. “I think there is something wrong with my mic,” he flipped his jacket up to reveal the pack clipped to his belt. “Can you help me?”

Part of her wanted to tell him to fuck off and flag down one of the many production assistants floating around the set,  but the other part of her knew that Jon Snow was smart enough to know a battery change wasn’t in her job description. And if the suitor was flagging down a producer the night of a rose ceremony, it was the producer’s job to find out what he needed. It didn’t hurt that it gave her an excuse to end the argument with Jeyne. 

She dismissed the other woman with a curt nod, before steering the suitor rather roughly by the elbow into the hall where a staging table held an assortment of backup equipment. 

“It’s turned off,” she glared up at his amused eyes. 

“Oh,” he shrugged. “Well, easy fix then.”

----

I posted the first chapter...even though I told myself I wouldn't until I had written more.

As per usual...way more than six. Whatever. 

From the next chapter of Rose...Thou Art Sick: 

“You should take an ice bath and then apply a heat pad after,” he said, running a broad hand down her back, pausing to knead experimentally in a few more spots. “And drink more water...and less champagne.” He righted a bottle that was slowly leaking into the seat cushion beside them.  

“Oh, I’ll get right on that. Right after all the yoga and therapy that I also totally have time for.” Now that she was upright, feeling was pulsing back into her legs, filling her with prickly venom. She inspected the man beside her, dismayed to find him better-looking in person than he appeared on TV or magazines. What a cliche. And he was so northern, it was unbearable. ”I can’t believe Cersei let you keep the beard.”

“It’s in my contract,” he grinned, as if negotiating control over his own facial hair gave him the upper hand. Keep lying to yourself, buddy.

Just then, Jaime appeared. “Hey Bean,” he leaned casually against the open door, his signature Treasurer Aluminum Gold in hand. “You’re late.”

“And not fashionably, I’m afraid.” She sighed, reaching for his cigarette, taking a clipped drag.”Help me out.”

But he ignored her outstretched hand, taking back the cigarette instead. “I thought you quit.” 

Chapter 2 is posted. 

I may just re-write the summary with every chapter I post as well. SMH. 

Anyhoo...a little snippet: 

She eschewed the entrance hall, not quite ready to face the cacophony of the contenders, corralled in a pen of fake patina and crushed velvet, waiting for their stamped penny prince. Instead, she circled around the lit-up castle, past the courtyard with its topiaries, trained into towering chess pieces that cast menacing shadows across the checkered ground, and past the prize-winning roses, asleep among the thorns. She cut through the more humble potager garden to avoid the fleet of golf-carts, parked haphazardly near the tent where Hot Pie fed the crew, until she came to a nondescript door, half-hidden in a dark corner by the ivy whose roots found a home in each crack of the castle’s ancient stonework. 

Up, up, and up she climbed. It was no wonder how Cersei kept her figure, prowling up and down the narrow spiral of stairs each day, wine in one hand, rage in the other. Tonight, Sansa had barely crossed the threshold into the lion’s den, when she pounced. 

“You’re late.” She was leaning against her desk, watching her wall of monitors, her high cheekbones and toned arms glowing in the blue light.  

“Pesky things...bodies. Haven’t found a way to put mine in more than one place at a time.”

“You should have been a twin, like Jaime and I.” Sansa had enough difficulty keeping track of one self. She didn’t need another. “Did you get it?” Cersei held out her hand, still frowning at the screens.  

“I did,” Sansa fished the contract from her bag, keeping one eye on the figures moving across the wall. She watched Podrick flashing head shots at Jon while he ate, in one corner, while the object of Cersei’s question sat in the center of the action in the great hall, holding up a champagne flute to the other girls in a silent toast. “She comes with conditions, of course.” 

“It’s Jeyne that I don’t understand. Why would she want to be on the show? I thought your kind looked down on this sort of thing.” 

Sansa filled her rocks glass with Bordeaux, before refilling Cersei’s outstretched stemware. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense.” It wasn’t so much that her family looked down on reality television, but that they loathed it. And in that, Jeyne had quite vocally conformed with the rest of the Starks.   

“Well, have you asked her?”

“No.” Asking would be an invitation; an opening. And Sansa had no interest in giving Jeyne Poole an opening. Not now. Not on foreign soil. She already knew what Jeyne wasn’t here for. She wasn’t here looking for romance. As appealing as Jon Snow may be, she was practically married to Theon Greyjoy, or at least she had been the last time Sansa checked. Catelyn would have told her if they’d broken up. Wouldn’t she? 

Nor was Jeyne looking for fame, money, or diversion, which winnowed the reasons down to a scarce few. 

“Well, if it’s bothering you that much, send her packing.” Cersei shrugged, resuming the tape. “She was only ever going to be mid-season filler anyhow, and-” she met Sansa’s eye, “it’s not like we can do anything interesting with her now. I’m assuming you won’t let me.”

“You assume correctly. And I can’t send her home early, either. That would only play into her suspicions.”

Cersei laughed; a dry cough. “Suspicions? Of what? That I’m some evil witch who has put a curse on you? That sweet Sansa Stark would never, in her right mind, choose this life?” She waved towards the wall of screens, her citrine ring sparkling in the dim light. “It’s been ten years. Can’t they accept you’ve grown up?”

With my body nailed to the floor. It’s hard to grow straight with an iron stake through your gut. Sansa was cursed, though not by Cersei. Cersei was more fairy godmother to Sansa’s broken princess than evil witch… wasn’t she? 

“Whatever her motivation, I’m afraid she’ll be horribly bored with the truth of my day-to-day.”