Lyanna I

I’ve got a funny idea with damsel in distress role reversal. How about Jon’s a city boy who’s dad just died and the rest of the family cut him off from the money so he takes whatever chuck of $ he had to himself and buys a house in the woods. On the private dirt road to his house his fancy suv (that has no awd) gets stuck in the snow. And then up rolls Sansa (his new and only neighbor for miles) in a big truck with 4x4 wondering who’s driving down her road. She’s completely unimpressed with his brand new carhartt pants (did he iron them??) and name brand flannel that’s too thin but she takes him to her house and explains the house he bought is unlivable, the realtors had showed him a picture that was a decade old. Of course a blizzard happens and he has to stay for a week and learn how to rough it but he’s eager to learn and while a little sheltered not as shallow as she thought. Cupid hits them both. Happily ever after, tada!

a note about prompts in general: I have about 25 of them sitting in my inbox and I'm sorry I haven't done them yet! To be honest, a lot of them are for media I have never consumed, and so I need to at least read the synopses of the movies, TV shows & books. (I might try to watch the movies, but I know I won't watch the shows or read the books... I have a terrible attention span anymore)

a note about this prompt specifically: I always feel guilty when I get a fairly specific prompt and then write something that... well, isn't that. I took the basic premise of this and wrote what came into my head, so I'm sorry it's not the exact thing you asked for! But thank you for the prompt!!

...

read it on ao3 here

ephemera: chapter 26

...

Sansa hums along to the radio as she drives.

It's getting dark, and she's not the biggest fan of driving these back roads at night, but she's got Lady with her, so she isn't quite so worried. She'd gone over to Greywater to drop off some stuff for her dad, and the Reeds had invited her to stay for dinner, and now she's late getting back.

As she rounds a bend, she slows when she sees a car on the side of the road, it's hazards on, a man standing next to the vehicle, head bowed over a phone that she knows instantly won't have service. They're in the deepest part of the woods here, it's a dead zone.

It isn't tourist season, she thinks. That's what he has to be – no one ventures out this far unless they're a tourist, but usually they only come around in the autumn to ooh and aah at the changing leaves.

She slows down to a crawl and leans over to roll down her passenger side window, the night air sweeping in and making her shiver, even in her coat. It's technically spring, but up here, it still gets cold at night.

“Flat tire?” she calls to the man, who had looked up from his phone the moment he'd noticed her headlights.

“Seems like it,” he says, and she can't quite read the tone in his voice.

He's got tourist clothes on. Expensive looking pants that she thinks he's even ironed, and a flannel that's too thin for this weather. She's seen it before, the richer tourists all dress the same.

“You won't get service out here,” she nods down at his phone, and he sighs.

“Yeah, sort of figured that.” He doesn't put his phone away, though. He keeps it in his hand, clutching at it, and she guesses it's a comfort thing. Tourists like their phones.

Sansa has a phone, but she sometimes forgets about it because service is so spotty out here, it's sometimes useless. When it is working, though, she likes to see what's going on in the outside world. She even downloaded some app called TikTok and when the 5G is working, she likes to scroll through it at night and wonder what her life might be like if she lived somewhere that wasn't Winterfell.

“You got a spare?” she asks.

“I would assume,” he shrugs, and looks towards the trunk of the sedan.

If it weren't for Lady, Sansa would tell the man she'll go and find Jory to come help. The Cassels own a tow service and during tourist season, they troll these back roads looking for people exactly like this – city folk who bring their fancy sedans out here, only to find barely-paved roads and tons of potholes and deer.

But she does have Lady, and so instead, she backs her truck up, then pulls in behind the tourist's sedan so that her headlights illuminate it, and she keeps them on even after she shuts off the engine.

Lady is out first, and Sansa follows.

To his credit, the tourist doesn't flinch back from Lady, like most of them do. Lady's a big dog, and she's scary looking, even if Sansa knows she's got a gentle heart. Well, she has a gentle heart until someone threatens Sansa. Then Lady turns as feral as Shaggydog.

“You don't know if you have a spare?” she asks, trying to keep a tone out of her voice.

The man sighs and runs a hand through his hair, a mop of dark curls that look soft and inviting. That's another thing Sansa doesn't mind about the tourists – their hair always looks so shiny. Last year, she'd even gotten some recommendations from a few, and Sansa had gone online and ordered some products for herself, using her carefully saved money. An unnecessary expense, but every time she uses them, she spends the whole day touching and smelling her own hair, and it makes her happy.

“It's a rental,” the man explains. “So I assume there's a spare.”

“I'm guessing you don't know how to change it?” she asks, once again trying to keep that tone out of her voice, though it doesn't quite work. The tone that says, of course you don't know how. Look at you, pretty boy.

“I live in King's Landing,” the man shrugs again. If he hears the tone, he doesn't seem bothered by it. “I don't drive much.”

She nods, because that makes sense. She remembers visiting King's Landing once, with her parents. It had been a big deal, she'd been so excited to go, except she remembers getting there and everything was just so... much. So many people and the buildings rising like mountains around her and all the noise. And she remembers the Metro, how confusing it had been, how terrifying. She'd been a tourist there, she realizes - wide eyed and frightened and useless out of her element. He might not know how to change a tire, but she bets this man wouldn't blink twice at using the Metro.

“Open the trunk,” she instructs, and he follows her direction without question. Inside, she does find a spare tire, but no jack or tire iron. Useless.

Luckily, she has both in her truck, and so she goes back and retrieves them.

“Here,” she says, placing the jack under the jacking point. “Lift that?”

Again, he follows her direction without question, and it gives her pause. Sansa knows what she looks like, she knows most men don't take her very seriously. Not even in Winterfell, where they know her. She's always been the least useful of her siblings. The Stark who likes pretty things, always daydreaming, her head stuck in the clouds. But the tourist follows her instructions, no hesitation.

She may be the most useless of her siblings, but she does know things. And she certainly knows how to change a tire.

She watches him jack the car up, and that's when she notices the muscles in his arms, in his shoulders, through the thin material of his flimsy flannel, his forearms flexing where he's rolled up his sleeves. She decides to ignore that, and instead goes to haul the spare out of the trunk.

“Here, you use this to loosen the lug nuts,” she says, handing him the tire iron and pointing to where he needs to use them, and he does it. When the flat tire is off, she rolls him the spare and he puts it on, and she decides she doesn't mind this tourist. By now, most of them would be complaining, but he hasn't made a face, he hasn't let out a heavy sigh, he hasn't even frowned at her.

Not what she'd expect from someone with those shoes. Sansa may not be an expert, but she's spent enough time looking longingly at fashion magazines that some of the tourists leave behind (late at night, beneath her covers) to recognize the brand he's wearing. And now that he's rolled up his sleeves, she can see the watch on his wrist that she knows must cost more than anything she owns, or will ever own. He's lucky she's the one who found him. They're mostly good people out here, but there's a few bad seeds who would kill this man for his watch alone.

“This should get you to the next town, at least,” she says. She doesn't tell him the next town is her own home. “They can replace it there.” And then, because he keeps silent as he puts the lug nuts back on, she asks, “where are you headed, anyways?”

“Place called Winterfell,” he says, tightening the last of the lug nuts.

“What business you got in Winterfell?” she asks in surprise, caught off guard. It isn't tourist season, and no one ever has a reason to come to their small town otherwise.

“Oh,” he stands, slipping his flannel off and using it to wipe at his hands, the small bits of grease she can see spotting them. “I uh...” he starts, eyes on his hands as he keeps scrubbing at them, though the grease is long gone. “My mom's from there,” he says finally.

“Your mama?” Sansa asks, surprise making her blurt out another stupid question. “What's her name?”

The man looks up at her, studies her for a moment, before he says, “Lyanna Snow.”

“No way,” she breathes.

“You know her?” he asks, and something flares behind his eyes, something that looks almost... desperate?

“Oh, no, not personally,” she shakes her head. “But my daddy... he used to talk about her. They were friends. Said she ran off to the city, because-” Because she got pregnant by some tourist. Followed him to the city. “Daddy says they lost touch a long time ago, but he still talks about her,” she finishes lamely.

“Yeah,” the man says, shoulders deflating a little. “She died when I was young. I didn't even know she was from there, until I found her birth certificate a few months ago in dad's paperwork. Did some research and I thought... well, maybe I'd come check it out. See if I've still got family out here or something.”

Sansa wishes she hadn't stopped. She wishes she'd continued on and gotten Jory.

She could choose not to say anything. Let him continue on to Winterfell on his own, let him learn the truth that way. But the idea of it... no, she can't do that.

“You won't find much,” she says softly. “The Snows died a few years ago, and Lyanna was their only child. You might have some distant kin in the area, but nothing direct.”

“Oh.”

That's all he says, but it makes something deep in Sansa's chest ache.

“I didn't even catch your name,” she says, because she can't stand the silence, or the way his eyes go distant as he stares off into the dark woods.

“Jon,” he turns back to her, blinking slowly.

“I'm Sansa Stark,” she says, holding out her hand. “It's nice to meet you, Jon Snow.”

He winces as he takes her hand, “it's Targaryen, actually. Mom gave me my dad's last name. I've thought about changing it, but-” he cuts himself off, as if he's decided he's sharing too much information, and takes his hand back. “Will that spare get me back to King's Landing?” he asks, and she feels another pang in her chest, a twisting of her heart. He's going to go back to the city, because he's not going to find the family he was looking for out here.

“Probably shouldn't,” she says truthfully. “Not good for the car, you should stop as soon as you find the nearest shop.” Then, after a slight hesitation, “Winterfell's the closest, and the Cassels will give you a good deal on a new tire, I promise,” she says. “I'll call them up the minute they open and let them know you're comin'.” Before she can think it through, she continues, “the Lodge has vacancies.”

“The Lodge?”

She nods, feeling her face go a bit hot, and she's grateful for the darkness. “It's like a hotel. My family owns it. We've got plenty of openings since it isn't tourist season.”

He nods slowly, as though he isn't going to take her up on the offer, but he doesn't want to offend her.

“And I was thinkin', you know,” she keeps going, “my daddy might want to meet you. He could tell you all sorts of things about your mama.”

Hope flashes in his eyes again, rekindled, and that ache pangs in her chest.

“I don't want to impose,” he says, carefully, and she shakes her head.

“Don't you worry about that,” she says. “I'm sure daddy would love to meet you. He always wondered what happened to her.”

The man, Jon, nods, still cautiously, as if he's trying not to get his hopes up. But she can see the change in him – she knows he's not going back to the city. At least not tonight.

“You can follow me if you want,” she offers.

“Alright,” he agrees.

They get back into their vehicles and she pulls out first and drives slowly, making sure he keeps up, making sure another pothole doesn't waylay him again. He has no reason to trust her, but he still follows, and she might call him naive if she weren't just as stupid for telling a strange man on a dark road to follow her home.

Yet there's something in her that trusts him, that knows he's telling the truth.

She's leading Lyanna's boy home.

Missing

Little Women AU preview from the WIP folder

There were two black leather trunks that sat at the foot of the bed she shared with Arya. Jon had brought them to Winterfell before he left for his training camp, and Sansa liked to keep them close.

They were old, and a little shabby, with the name ‘J. Snow’ stamped on the sides in peeling gold letters. Together they contained the entirety of his life — everything he owned, neatly packed away in moth balls for when he returned.

Sansa wore the keys on a chain around her neck, but had never looked inside them before, not wanting to invade his privacy. But now she just wanted to feel close to him. She sighed and lovingly stroked her fingers over his name before she turned a key in the lock, and lifted a cumbersome lid.

The first held all of his clothes and personal effects. As she took an inventory of its contents, Sansa caressed his wool jackets, and linen shirts, and pressed his neatly folded neck cloths to her cheek. She examined his razor, shaving brush, nail brush, hair brush, wooden comb, and a small pair of silver scissors — then opened the little pots of pomade, and shaving soap, and breathed in their familiar scents of pine and juniper.

At the very bottom was a leather case holding an old ambrotype of a frowning little boy with sticky out ears seated on the lap of a beautiful dark haired lady. She smiled to imagine that handsome Lieutenant Snow was ever so young, though the boy certainly looked grave enough to be her Jon. When she packed everything back neatly into the trunk, she kept the image of Lyanna and Jon out, and stood it on the bureau beside her bed.

Sansa laughed when she opened the second trunk and saw it was full of books! No wonder it was so blasted heavy when she’d tried to move it. How like Jon to travel with so many. She examined the titles on the spines and smiled when she noticed his well worn copy of ‘Aemon the Dragon Knight’ sitting near the very top. It was the same copy he’d asked her to read from, at Gendry’s picnic. She remembered gazing into Jon’s remarkable grey-violet eyes, and how tender and encouraging they had been. She reached for the book and was astounded to find a dainty, white, lace glove tucked between its pages. Her glove.

He’d had it, all this time? She clutched it and the book to her heart, and wept.

Missing isn’t dead. Sansa repeated Arya’s words to herself like a prayer, an incantation, that might summon Jon to her side.

Missing isn’t dead. He will be found, and come home to me.

John Everett Millais, Yes or No? (1871)

Game of Thrones

I love direwolves! 

Lady Sansa Stark finding solace in the Godswood in Kings Landing.

I feel like I know what some of these might be, but I'm curious what "the telephone hour" is??

So this is the abandoned intro to One Last Kiss.

I had originally envisioned it as a multi chapter fic, and was I was going to focus a bit on Sansa’s home life and school life before we got into her winning the letter writing contest. I had imagined writing out the whole story with Sansa and Jon falling in love on their date etc. but it would have been way too long — and I’m already a slow coach so I never would have finished it in time for Valentine’s Day. As is it was still a day late 😅

The final chaotic breakfast scene is much better without the intro, but I liked it so I didn’t delete it. I don’t think I’d be able to use it else where.

Also Harry was the boyfriend initially — but it s a lot easier to hate Joffrey.

Here it is.

The Telephone Hour

There were two telephones in the Stark house — the comfortably sized, white clapboard, centre hall colonial, at the top of Weirwood Lane. The first was a stately looking piece of equipment of black Bakelite, located in the study, and used exclusively by the paterfamilias himself, Ned Stark. The second was a buttercream yellow wall mounted model in the kitchen, that had once primarily been the province of Mrs. Castelyn Stark, but was now increasingly monopolized by her three teenaged children. In order to keep the peace, the young Starks adhered to a strict telephone schedule. Dinner, which was promptly served at seven, was naturally off limits, and nobody called after eight, unless someone was bleeding or dead.

The hour before dinner belonged to Robb, the Golden Boy of Winterfell High — the senior class president, the Homecoming King, and captain of the football team, who had a new girlfriend every couple of months. He would usually spend his entire hour, whispering sweet nothings into the receiver pressed tightly to his ear, phone cord pulled taught between the kitchen and the dim vestibule, where he might have some privacy from his eavesdropping siblings doing homework around the formica table.

The hour after school, four to five, was reserved for Arya who was in the ninth grade, and never received more than one or two calls an afternoon. They were mostly short exchanges about that evening’s homework, or marching band practice, or last week’s epidisod of Twilight Zone. Her two older siblings had each petitioned to commandeer some of Arya’s extra phone time, but Mr. and Mrs. Stark were unmoved.

The middle slot, five to six was for Sansa, who was a Junior, and very popular. She was editor of the school newspaper, secretary of the prom committee, co-captain of the tennis team and the debate club, Master of Laws on the model small council, to name a few of the extra carriculars which occupied at least half of her telephone time. The rest was devoted to standard, teenybopper gossip with her closest friends; Jeyne Poole, first and foremost, Margaery Tyrell, little Beth Cassel, and Tall Brienne Tarth. Lately there was a third subject that ate into her telephone hour — boys. Well, one boy in particular, her boyfriend, Harry Hardyng. Every one of her allotted sixty minutes was carefully accounted for, but Harry’s calls were gradually encroaching on the rest.

As you can see, it would have been way too long. We must kill our darlings I suppose.

Thanks for the ask!

Season 6 started and I just had to draw someone from Game of Thrones. So I tried to draw Sansa Stark. Her look i really changing through the seasons so my verson of her is kinda a mix out of all those seasons. Hope you like it.

I know everyone is on the pp train as they should but what’s happening with politician Jon? Anything worth sharing?

Calculated Risk

Pairing: Jon Snow x Sansa Stark

Rating: M for mature audiences

Word count: 521

Tags: politician Jon, journalist Sansa, established relationship

He is 33 years old and doesn’t know how to tie his own tie.

He is 33 years old and insurmountably aware of how pathetic it is that he doesn’t know how to tie his own tie.

However, no one can say that shame isn’t a legitimate motivator, because it keeps the tie on his neck as much as the drill sergeant beside him does.

“Stop scowling,” says Sansa, fingers pressing into the inside of his arm.

“I’m not scowling,” Jon mutters back, “This is just my face.”

She beams over her shoulder at the Hornwoods, holding up a single finger, before she turns back toward him. 

“Make it not your face,” She says, through shiny, straight teeth.

At the urge to pull at his tie, Jon takes a swig of too sweet champagne, swallowing the taste as well as the wince that follows. He craves beer. The cheap shitty kind that comes in a twelve pack and never fails to make him wish that he was dead the next morning.

“I’m starving,” He says under his breath. “You said there would be food here.”

“There is.” She turns around, plucking from a passing tray. She lifts a tiny little skewer to his mouth with glossy, manicured fingers, “Have a cucumber sandwich.”

“Real food,” Jon just barely gets out, before she takes the opportunity to pop the whole thing in his mouth. It’s cool, bland, and watery in his mouth. He’s about to tell her so when she raises a single eyebrow.

He finishes his food rather than talk and chew at the same time.

Sansa dabs at the corner of his mouth with her pretty little thumb, her approval as condescending as that of someone in possession of a newly house trained puppy.

As soon as they get home, he’s going to spank her. 

“This is my event,” He says now, irritable, “Shouldn’t I get to dictate what food we serve?”

“And what would you have everyone eating?” Her head tilts to the side, “Baby back ribs? Brisket? Philadelphia cheesesteaks?”

This time, he does scowl, a flush crawling up his neck.

“At least everyone would leave full.”

“You eat like a teenager. Smile.”

Before Jon can open his mouth to argue, she cuts him off with a smile of her own, white and blinding. 

“Smile. Or you’re not getting laid tonight.”

“Bet you I will,” he says, but through a baring of his teeth that feels a lot closer to a grimace than a smile.

Sansa ignores him.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it silly boy?” She kisses him on the lips lightly. “Keep smiling. Here comes Mr. Manderly. Don’t forget to ask him about his boats.”

She calls over to Mrs. Hornwood, who makes an exclamation of delight at the sight of her. She leaves him to the wolves—one huge, barrel chested congressman that goes by the last name Manderly in particular—without so much as a second glance. 

For the millionth time, he wonders why on earth he wants to marry her. But it won’t be long before she reminds him.

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.

shoutout to my sensitive bitches we out here crying !!! weep girl weep