Omg Yeeeey!!!

you hear about recovery not being linear (”there are ups and downs”), but actually it’s more like a game of wack-a-mole. this is not a bad thing

if you’re still taking prompts……..i would love to see more regency au, like the first time they met/saw each other

It was Rhaenys who steered him over in the end with a long brown arm threaded through his, like a mother pulling her son by the ear. He told her he would approach her in his own time, but his sister would not hear of it. Jon tried to struggle without causing a scene, but it was all in vain, because as soon as they were in view, his old friend saw him almost immediately.

Then so did she.

“Dragonstone,” His voice carried.

At his side, Rhaenys beamed smugly. Oh, if she were a house cat she would have purred. And if they were still children, he most certainly would have tried to drown her.

“Winterfell,” He said back, swallowing down his nerves. The taste of contempt does not ease the way.

Robb Stark, the Marquess of Winterfell, approached him with the shade of a grin that used to get them into all sorts of trouble in their youth, accompanied by his party of three. He gave him a firm handshake, and a squeeze of his arm.

“Old friend,” He said, “But a stranger if I have ever seen one. Dukedom becomes you.”

They kept in touch after Oxford, through frequent letters and the occasional night out in the Ton when he visited during the season. But Jon loathed staying too close to home, every second that passed another where his father could sink his claws into him and conjure a reason for him to stay.

That was never Robb Stark. Eddard Stark died three years ago, but it did not take his passing for his son to come home and do his duty. Rhaegar Targaryen could not say the same.

It was why Jon loved him. It was why he envied him.

“The duke of Dragonstone, is it?” The older woman at his side broke in.

This, of course, could be no one other than the Marchioness—if her coloring did not give this away, her demeanor did, for he was now well acquainted with the behavior of pushy social climbing mamas.

It was unfortunate for her that he decided to dedicate the rest of his life to ignoring her daughter only a half a minute prior.

He refused to give Rhaenys the satisfaction.

“Forgive me. In my excitement, I forgot myself,” Winterfell said, though he did not look pleased to be interrupted. “Dragonstone, this is my mother, Lady Winterfell.”

“Your grace,” She curtsied minutely, graceful. Jon bowed his head.

“Our ward, Miss Poole,” Winterfell said, of the girl with the eyes of a young doe.

“Your Grace,” Her curtsy was more practiced, a bit grand. She immediately tucked her hands behind her afterward.

Winterfell gestured to the far left, “And my sister, Lady Sansa.”

Jon was left with no choice but to finally look at her.

Pearls scattered her hair like stars, gleaming pale against the autumnal fire. Thin tendrils cascaded from her chignon down her slender neck. Her gown was a shade of ivory adorned with tiny pink roses. She curtsied as gracefully as her mother, lashes lowered demurely, before she met his eyes. Summer blue.

“Your grace.” She said, voice a touch lower than he expected it to be. The voice of a woman,

She was even more striking up close.

Beside him, Rhaenys cleared her throat delicately.

Jon flushed, he hadn’t even bowed to her, he was so struck stupid, but there was nothing to be done about that now. He could feel a stammer on the tip of his tongue, so he had no choice but swallow and take more time.

“This is my sister,” Or, as he would have liked to call her in that moment, the bane of his damned existence. “Lady Highgarden.”

“A pleasure to meet you all,” She said with a smile he was most certain had its root in his current discomfort, “You most of all, my lord. I have heard a great many of things.”

“I hope all of them were great,” Winterfell said with a laugh, but he was charmed, as most men were when it came to her.

Rhaenys chortled at that, “Oh, indeed.”

It should have been something that warmed his heart, his two of his favorite people in the entire world finally meeting and sharing a laugh, and perhaps it would have been if he had not made a complete bumbling fool of himself at his sister’s insistence just seconds before. He was already coming up with an excuse to leave, searching for Dany’s silver gold head in the crowd, anything to avoid those damn blue eyes, when his sister launches her scheme first.

“I was just telling my brother that I simply could not dance another step,” She shook her head, as if regretful, before she smiled once more. “Would you be so kind as to take my place, Lady Sansa?”

Jon nearly choked on his own dread and disbelief.

Miss Poole inhaled sharply, overjoyed, as if she’d been asked to dance herself and Lady Winterfell glowed with pride and Lady Sansa—

She blushed, and it was the sweetest thing he ever saw.

“Since when do you dance?” Winterfell demanded of him, no longer charmed, not having it in the slightest.

“She would be honored,” Lady Winterfell interjected before her son could object entirely. “Wouldn’t you, dearest?”

“I would, your Grace,” Lady Sansa said, still blushing.

Shyly, she met his eyes again, her gloved hand a tentative offering.

Winterfell stared, appalled, and Rhaenys stood beside him, self-congratulation rolling off of her in waves, and his heart pounded in chest so hard that he could taste it in his throat.

Her hand was small and soft in his, and he made a new promise then, to be gentle.

jon kissing sansa’s forehead and then looking at her lips reblog if u agree

Jon Snow by saikou73

omg😍

someday your husband will sit there and you will sit by his side.

Winter's Child Preview WIP (Surprise!)

Some of the pieces I have written for Winter's Child are more edited than I realized, so I thought I'd share one here as a treat for all of you who have stuck with the story through my accidental hiatus. We start reeeeally getting into some of the lore I've developed for the story going forward, and I'm excited to hear what you think of it!

“It’s so dark, father.” Sansa shuddered as her eyes flicked around her and she clutched tight at her father’s hand. She was all of eight years old, and had never been this far back into the crypts. Her other hand was firmly ensconced in Bael’s fur as she held onto his leg. “Why must our kin rest in such a- a lonely place?”

Her father chuckled, the sound echoing in the cavern.

“’tis not lonely, child.” He told her, easily lifting her up onto his hip. “Our crypts hold our kin- the history of our house. Hard men and honorable men and men who survived many winters. Can you think of better company for us in death?”

Sansa had to admit that this made sense. she snuggled closer to her father, tucking her head in his neck. Lady seemed wary as well, sticking close by Bael’s side. She was still tiny, next to the massive adult direwolf, and kept darting under him, eyes flicking around at the stone figures.

“You’re freezing already, sweetling.” Her father frowned, putting a hand to her cheek. “Your skin is like ice.”

“I’m not cold.” Sansa insisted, stubbornly. She didn’t want to go back yet. The crypts frightened her, but it was so rare that her father’s attention was focused on her and her alone. “Why are our crypts underground?”

“Where should they be?”

“Mother’s family lay their kin to rest in the rivers.” She murmured, playing with a lock of her father’s dark hair. “The Targaryens burned their dead, Maester Luwin said.”

Her father smiled at her.

“Would that your brothers paid half as much attention in their lessons.” He shook his head. “We return to the embrace of the earth- to rest under the roots of the weirwood and the eyes of the old gods.” he was quiet for a moment as they reached her aunt Lyanna’s tomb. “The old gods grant us the privilege of their power while we live.”

“Our gifts.” Sansa murmured. “The direwolves.” Bael leaned his head down, nuzzling at her dangling feet and she giggled.

“Yes, sweetling.” her father murmured, his eyes flashing for a second. “We return that gift to the earth when we die. The stone keeps in our bones, but our ancestors rest on the earth itself.” he gestured towards the older tombs, overrun with great, twisting white roots. “We feed the weirwood in death, allowing her to take back our magic.”

“Old Nan told me that the crypts are deep enough to keep our wild magic in.” Sansa told him. “Especially the Starks of old. Before Torrhen. The kings of winter.”

“Perhaps she is right.” Ned murmured, setting Sansa down to stand next to him in front of Lyanna’s statue. His gaze was indecipherable as he looked on her stone face. She had been beautiful, Sansa knew. Everyone always said so. She was beautiful even in stone, her companion, Alya, carved beside her. “The gift granted to the Starks of old was different from the wolves, sweetling. Harsher, wilder- more dangerous. Those who could call winter to their fingertips do not rest easily.”

“Why not?”

“To hold sway over winter was to call and command death itself.” Her father told her, his voice soft. “To live with one foot in the world of the gods. It was a wild gift, Sansa, and not one to be taken lightly.”

She nodded, solemnly. She had read the stories of the Stark kings of old. She wasn’t sure she would ever want to meet one, even if they were kin. One question kept tugging at the back of her mind, though.

“Father?”

“Yes, sweetling?”

“Why did the gods take it from us? The winter-blood gift, i mean.”

“I wish I knew.” Ned told her, his gaze not directed towards her, but rather to his sister’s face. “But none but Torrhen Stark and his immediate kin would know, and his bones remain silent. They hold no answers for us here.”

The two were silent for another moment.

“Do you think the gods will ever give it back to us?” Sansa asked, softly.

Her father’s face momentarily crumpled into a deep grief before he seemed to steady himself, digging a hand into Bael’s thick fur.

“Perhaps.” he murmured, laying a wreath of evergreen atop his sister’s tomb. There were snowflakes etched up and down the stone. Sansa had always thought it oddly beautiful for something so grim. “We can only wait on the gods, sweetling. One day, they may answer your question.”

Game of Thrones by Pablo Olivera

I'm getting so sick of major female characters in historical media being incredibly feisty, outspoken and public defenders of women's rights with little to no realistic repercussions. Yes it feels like pandering, yes it's unrealistic and takes me out of the story, yes the dialogue almost always rings false - but beyond all that I think it does such a disservice to the women who lived during those periods. I'm not embarrassed of the women in history who didn't use every chance they had to Stick It To The Man. I'm not ashamed of women who were resigned to or enjoyed their lot in life. They weren't letting the side down by not having and representing modern gender ideals. It says a lot about how you view average ordinary women if the idea of one of your main characters behaving like one makes them seem lame and uninteresting to you.

sneak peek of wc pls pls 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

—sneak peek of chapter 2 of workplace casual (aka the greys au) coming Thursday/fridayish

Sansa knows where his office is, but not in a creepy way. 

She’s scarcely been to the neuro ward since her trauma rotation has started, but she’s been here enough for scut work that she knows where it is. She didn’t make a note of it, or anything. Sure, the ward is big, but the door with his name on it really isn’t that hard to miss.

She knocks tentatively. The answer from the other side of the door comes faster than she expects it to. She almost jumps out of her skin.

“Come in.”

Her hand lingers on the doorknob for a couple seconds, then she twists it open. 

He’s sitting behind his desk, staring blankly at one of his screen monitors. He’s wearing glasses too, wire frames she’s never seen before in her life, as rubs at his jaw. His gaze moves over her once, passively, before he looks at her again. This time, he straightens up suddenly, as if his brain has finally registered that she is here.

“Hi,” Jon clears his throat.

Sansa is still staring at his glasses, then she isn’t, because suddenly she finds it incredibly difficult to do so without…reacting. Internally, thank god. 

Wait. Nope. Her face feels hot. That’s great. That’s actually more than great, and exactly what she needed—

“Hi,” she says, a little too loud and a little too quick. “I was just—”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” She says, maybe emphasizing the word a little harder than necessary. “I’m fine. I was just—I was in the break room putting my stuff away and I found it.”

Sansa holds the yogurt parfait in front of her like it’s a bomb.

Jon stares at the yogurt, then her, unfazed. 

“Right,” He says.

He doesn’t say anything else.

Sansa exhales so hard, so bracingly through her nose that she can hear it whistle. 

“It has my name on it—”

“It does,” He agrees, “Because it’s yours.”

So,etching in her stomach does an ugly lurching motion that makes her toes wiggle.

“I told you that you didn’t have to do this stuff anymore,” she says, words crammed into an inhale, “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I already forgave you, and it really is—”

“And I told you, we’re friends,” He’s picking up a file, dismissing her entirely. Those stupid glasses are slipping down his equally stupid nose. “And friends make sure friends eat their breakfast—

“Can you stop interrupting me?” snaps Sansa, hands on her hips. “I’m not gonna faint again.”

“You won’t if you eat that,” Jon says, stubborn. 

She briefly thinks about explaining how yesterday happened underneath extenuating circumstances, but this situation is already embarrassing enough.

Jon sighs, as if he’s the one being inconvenienced by this conversation. He closes his folder, eyes meeting hers. 

“It was barely four dollars. I was getting something for lunch this morning, and I saw it and I thought of you.”

Oh.

The word gets stuck inside of her throat, and she rubs her palms against her pants, trying to ignore the sound of her pulse in her ears.

He averts his eyes quickly, clearing his throat. “And your awful eating habits.”

That’s…decidedly less heartwarming, 

“Oh.” She says, this time aloud, and a little flat. 

Another knock sounds at the door, and without thinking, Sansa takes a step back from the desk, even though she really isn’t that close anyway. 

Jon notices this, gaze unreadable. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Come in.”

The door clicks open. Benjen of all people appears in the doorway, and Sansa has to actively mind her eyes so that they don’t bug out of her head. She discreetly tucks the yogurt behind her back.

“Sansa,” His brows raise at the sight of her, "Hello.”

“Hi,” she says back, and by some miracle, it isn’t the same octave as a squeak emitted from a chew toy. 

She doesn’t dare look at Jon behind her. 

“Will that be all, Stark?” She hears him say.

His voice is quiet and toneless, and she hears the clicking of his computer mouse, and she knows that he’s trying his best to make it seem like he’s busy. Like they were busy and not…doing whatever it is that they were doing.

Being friends, apparently.

“Yes sir,” She says quickly, “Thanks again.”

On her way out the door, Benjen gives her a look; subtle, appraising, and thankful, because little does Jon know, that’s exactly what’s been asked of her. Sansa didn’t even remember until this very moment. 

Friends. 

She gives him a pained, close lipped smile of her own, shutting the door. 

And then she all but runs down the corridor, putting as much distance between the three of them as possible.

Jon wakes to a pounding at his door. The cabin is dark, the only light from the banked fire. Jon was warm beneath his covers, but when he sits up, chilled air slips beneath, making him shiver. The pounding comes again, and Jon swings his legs out of bed, his stockinged feet meeting the cold hardwood. He barely feels it, all his attention on the door, and who could possibly be seeking him out in the dead of the night. Or what, his mind whispers, but he shakes that out. Jon is not a superstitious man,

for the @jonsa-halloween event day 1: witch

read it here on ao3