Asoiaf Characters Who Could Hack It As A Starbucks Barista:

not to stan on main but i honestly love everything about sansa stark?!?!?! seriously, even at her most controversial moments i still love her. like “she wasn’t nice to tyrion when they were married” so?? she was a political prisoner and child bride, next. “she lied about the nymeria incident” um an 11 year old made a decision on the spot while being grilled by the queen to appease a tyrannical douchebag and maintain the alliance between stark and baratheon. “she fights with her sister” please point me to a pair of siblings who have never fought in their lives. “she didn’t fight her way out of king’s landing” and? if she had tried to stab everyone she would have immediately got her throat slit???? “she likes stories about knights and princesses” bitch me too tf.

i think there’s something so beautiful and relatable about a soft-spoken and observant teenager who made some silly teenage decisions but rolls with the punches and rejects the teachings of corrupt mentors in a time when everyone around her is morally bankrupt. i love how some people immediately love her and for some she’s an acquired taste. i love how her mental activity becomes more and more thought-provoking as she develops and she de-romanticizes court life. i love how she’s an excellent foil for arya, her likeness in all the ways that matter. on the outside she appears complacent as people mock her and the starks but on the inside she’s becoming a powerhouse of empathy and refining her sense of justice.

“Daddy?”

“Find Jon,” Ned said frantically as the capital guards hovered. They only had minutes before she’d be shoved onto the train.  

“Jon? I don’t understand,” Sansa said, frantic.

Ned held his daughter’s face in his hands. “Jon. He’s my sister Lyanna’s. Do you remember her?” 

How could Sansa not remember. Lyanna Stark was the only District 12 tribute to have ever won the Hunger Games. Every child in District 12 knew her name. She’d returned home after her victory only to announce that she would marry her primary sponsor—a man from one of the most prominent families in District 1. Ned had always suspected she’d been coerced, but suggesting as much would have only endangered her life. Why do that after everything she’d already survived? 

“Her son is the tribute for District 1. Seek him out. He’ll help you.” 

“He’ll kill me,” she sobbed. “I’m going to die.”

“Find him, Sansa. Find a way.”

—–

Jonsa Hunger Games AU in which the Starks live in District 12, where Ned is a leader and once upon a time, a young Lyanna was reaped and went on to win the games. Years later, Sansa’s name is called at the reaping, and as she’s carted off, Ned reminder her that his sister’s son—a District 1 tribute raised to win the games—will be in the arena with her and might help keep her alive. 

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.

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

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

Since I’m already out here being obnoxious and posting a ton today, might as well go all in, right? So for those of you who voted for the mob AU to be updated… sorry! But I am working on it (and have been basically since I posted the first part lol), so here’s a little snippet for anyone interested.

**Be warned, it’s darker than the first part, because it’s from Jon’s POV and unlike Sansa, he wasn’t sheltered from the actual mob stuff. All tags/warnings from the original story apply here. Specific to this part: references to murder/violence.

Keep reading

hi!! :) i love all you fics i was re reading your princess diaries au and i was wondering if you had any plans on continuing? if you did i’d love to see the aftermath of jon missing his date with sansa and how upset arya is too! and the ball scene!! ily <3 :)

hi!!!!!!! this is really good timing asking this because i've actually been working on it a lot lately!!!! (@cellsshapedlikestars even helped me noodle my way through a part where i was stuck xoxoxoox)

i'm not sure if the next chapter will be the last or if i'll need to break it into two more (maybe a sansa pov??? not sure) but i've got at least one more jon bit coming that should cover at least some of that!!!

aaaaaand because i am so delighted to get a lil anon message about it, here is a sneak peek!!!!!

--

“What happened to my romantic little boy?” she tuts, and Jon drops his head back to groan at the ceiling. 

“Mom, I’m not a little boy anymore.”

“I know, I know,” she says, and when he glances over, she’s haphazardly folding all of his tees into a messy little pile. “You’re all grown up now and ready to lead some foreign country, but when I look at you, I still see that same little boy who swore up and down that he was going to have a foot-poppin’ first kiss.”

“Mom!” He can feel the way his face flames hot, flushed, even though there’s no one there to witness his embarrassment other than the woman dead set on causing it. He wonders if he could get away with pretending he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but he’s pretty sure that wouldn’t stop her. 

“What?” she asks, mock innocent. “I’m not allowed to talk about what a sweet boy you were?”

“Can you just… not?” he begs again. “Please?”

The thing is, he does remember. They’d been watching some old movie, one of those black and white ones where everyone spoke in an inexplicable accent, and when the hero had grabbed his girl and kissed her, one of her feet had lifted off the ground as if it had a mind of its own. He’d been determined to have a first kiss equally as powerful, equally as passionate — and his mom had laughed. And then, when she’d seen how serious he was, how struck he was by her laughter when he was not joking, Mom, it’s not funny, she’d assured him that of course he would have a foot-popping first kiss one day. He guesses now that she already knew then not all princes were made out of fairytale stuff, but he’d been young and starry-eyed and determined to be different than his parents. And then he’d gotten older and reality had set in for him, too. 

“Besides,” he grumbles, “I already had my first kiss years ago, and Ygritte wasn’t exactly a ‘foot pop’ kind of girl.”

Seriously though, be kinder to yourself 💕