Winter's Child Preview WIP (Surprise!)

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!!!!!

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“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.”

Can we have a ficlet for your arranged marriage period fic? Pretty please (or some info about it, I understand if you do not want to share too much)<3

The Duke of Dragonstone paid his stablehand three pounds for the pups, as it was just enough for him to purchase a new hound of quality to whelp in order to ensure that such a circumstance as the one he found himself in now could never happen again.

“You will feed them yourselves, clean up after them yourselves, and once they pass, you will bury them yourselves.” He had said that afternoon with a severity the three ladies of the manor did not care to note, as they were too busy squealing, jumping up and down and fawning over the basket he held in his hand.

An hour later, they remained enamored with the two latest additions to their household on the floor of the parlor, and Jon Targaryen had a sneaking suspicion that before long, he would be happening upon one of the chambermaids picking up dog droppings from the hardwood floors.

The albino pup they’ve christened Ghost is shyly edging out from underneath a bookshelf, coaxed by Daenerys and Shireen. At his feet, the Duchess sits holding the pup she has christened Lady to her cheek. She cradles the mass of gray and white fur to her chest as if it’s a babe.

“Is she not the most heavenly thing you’ve ever seen?” sighs Sansa, beaming up at him.

Were she just a bit more heavenly, she’d be six feet underneath a patch of dirt right now, and he would have three more pounds and a quieter house.

“I can hardly stand it,” He remarks dryly, flipping his newspaper.

To his left, old Uncle Aemon releases a cough that sounds suspiciously like a chortle.

Deep down, Jon knew that it isn’t about the money, for he has more than enough. It was more the principle. He had lost count of how many times his wife had swindled a yes from him after he provided her with a firm no. Even Daenerys and Shireen had taken note, and knew that if they could present their case to the lady of the house, then all was not lost yet. Though they knew not how she always managed to convince him.

Jon didn’t know either. It always happened before he could manage to stop it. One minute, she was in front of him in her prettiest dress and the most damnable request, and the next, her face was lit up like an inn on a winter night, hand on his inner arm, forehead to his.

He’d tried saying no to her on at least three occasions. Afterward, he always felt awful. He decided quickly in their six months of marriage that a short bout of irritation was leagues better than that.

Sansa sat the pup down on the carpet, and though it lingered for a moment, it scurried into Dany’s waiting arms at the sound of her encouraging coos. She nuzzled into her cheek, face bright.

Sansa rested her chin on his knee. His sarcasm was not lost upon her, he knows, but the way she gazed up at him was a chastisement enough.

It was always so much gentler, so much warmer, so much kinder than he deserved.

“Ghost will be a good hound for you, your grace.” She quipped, then. “You two are of a similar disposition.”

The albino pup poked a wary head out from underneath his shelter, and Jon could not tell if she was calling him shy, unsociable, strange, or all three. Then, he thought of the way it had nosed its way into Sansa’s décolletage only seconds after she picked him up and he came to the conclusion that he perhaps had more in common with the pup than he previously thought.

And he had been called worse by others who did not sleep beside him at night.

He still scowled, and he was glad he did, because it made her laugh.

“Uncle Aemon,” She said, voice still high and sweet from mirth, “How was I so fortunate to marry the most generous of gentlemen in all of London?”

At that, Uncle Aemon laughed; long and hardy.

“My dear, I suspect many would say otherwise.” He remarked, affectionate.

“They would be speaking nonsense.” She replied.

After dinner, Jon retired to his study to share a drink with his uncle; and they both listened to the mingled shouts of both amusement and dismay as the ladies of the house tried their hand at bathing their new pets.

“I’m afraid we share a home with the three silliest girls in all of London,” He muttered, more to himself.

Once again, his uncle laughed.

“And what would you do without your silly girls?” He asked.

Utterly lost, he knew. Of that, he was completely certain. But Jon did not say so. He did not need to.

Instead, he wondered if his silliest girl would join him in earnest in bed tonight.

“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. 

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

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.

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.

my dear jonsas, someone please write something of this sansa with this jon.

thank you very much.

Jon Snow by saikou73

JONSA HALLOWEEN 2024

Hi Jonsa fam, this spooky season we are back to have some fun!  We will be hosting a four day Halloween event from 28th to 31st October.

This year we have included 3 prompts per day -

28th : Wolf - Curse - Crow

29th : Came back wrong! - Vampire - Autumn

30th : Magic - The Dreadful - Pumpkin

31st : Dragon - Trick or treat - Free Choice

👻You can interpret the prompts as strictly or as loosely as you want to. For eg. The prompt ‘wolf’ can be interpreted as direwolf, werewolf etc. You may even chose not to have any scary element in your entry!

👻 We will be tracking #jonsa halloween & #jonsa halloween 2024 tags for our event this year. So don’t forget to tag your post accordingly. You can also tags us @jonsa-halloween​ in your posts. 

👻 This event is inclusive of all types of fan creations like fanfics, edis, web weaving, gifsets, manips, fan video, meta etc.

👻 If you have any questions please send us asks. We would love to answer your queries!

👻 We will be accepting late entries till our Master list is posted.  So do not worry even if you miss out on posting your entry during the event days!

Note - In case we miss out on re-blogging your entries please do share with us link to your post.