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  1. Public Bookmark 8

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    What are you talking about this is a completely normal platonic sibling hug? It’s only *checks watch* 17 minutes long. Noooo repressed feelings here. No sir.

    Missing scene from 7x02.

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    07 Feb 2020

    Bookmarker's Notes

    “...And if I need you?” she asks, hands sliding from his cheeks to the planes of his chest.

    Jon laughs at that. “You don’t. Your job will be much easier without me.”

    “But if I want you?” She insists, eyes blazing into his. Jon doesn’t breathe, then he does, shuddering with the depths the cold air reaches into his lungs. “To stay, here with me.” Sansa finishes, lowering her head to watch her fingers trace the direwolf she stamped over his heart.

    Jon clenches his fingers into her hips. Then brings up his palms to cradle the back of her head. “Sansa. There’s nothing in this world I want more than to stay by your side. Forever. But there’s one thing I need more. I need you to be as safe as I can make you. So I have to go. I will go.”

    She’s silent for a while. Eyes closed, thinking. Snowflakes fall gently from the sky to brush her cheeks, rest on her lashes. Then she opens them again, reserved once more. “I cannot change your mind.” She says.

    “No.” Jon lies, stroking her hair, while his heart constricts in his chest, burning with pain.

  2. Public Bookmark 62

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    When Janos Slynt’s eyes halt in their perusal of the courtyard to fall on she and Jon, Sansa feels like her veins turn to ice.

    It is like she is in King’s Landing again, the way her body reacts. Fear makes her want to fall to her knees, the only place she knew that satiated Joffrey’s rage enough. She can hear the sound of her dress tearing by the hands of the very man she is now locking eyes with; her back aches with the feel of the flat of his blade hitting her.

    “Sansa?” Jon murmurs beside her, now turned completely to her. She realises she is shaking, but she can’t stop, and she can’t tear her eyes from Slynt. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

    Sansa opens her mouth to say something, anything, hopefully a command for him to take her back to his rooms, but instead a tumbling, rage-induced string of words come out. “I want you to kill him, Jon.”

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    06 Feb 2020

    Bookmarker's Notes

    “I saw a vision of you,” the woman says softly, ignoring Sansa’s words. “He and I both thought it your other sister . . . But here you are.”

    “Here I am.”

    “His girl in grey.”

    “Don’t call me that.”

    “I shall call you what I please,” Melisandre says. She folds her hands over her stomach, then looks up to watch Jon herself. “Lady Stark. Girl in grey . . . Nissa Nissa.”

    Sansa feels a pit of frustration and turns to Melisandre with a scowl. “Enough of your riddles,” Sansa spits. “If you’ve seen the truth in your flames, then you know who this man is.”

    Melisandre’s mouth ticks up in a smile. “Yes, I do,” she confirms. “But I should think I know more about how this day is going to end than you.”

    Sansa grits her teeth. “Enough. Leave me, now, or else the Lord Commander might find himself inclined to put another neck on that chopping block.”

    “You do seem to have such persuasion over him,” Melisandre agrees quietly, and then disappears with a brush of her skirts.

    Sansa ignores the odd twisting in her gut, and determinedly turns back to the podium.

    Jon is staring at her, his eyes dark and unreadable, but as soon as they catch with hers, he lifts his sword from the ground.

    When he swings it down and disconnects Janos’ head from his shoulders, Sansa feels nothing. There is no relief, there is no sadness; there in no guilt nor is there joy.

    There is just another man dead.

    When Jon lifts his eyes again, finding her in the crowd, his sword now slick with red, Sansa feels something start to burn in her belly. Her heart starts to beat louder and faster in her chest, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips, even though she doesn’t quite know why.

    That’s a lie. She knows exactly why.

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    “There is an old sort of magic to sacrifice, after all.” - Jon and Sansa. Stark is a house of many winters.

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    01 Feb 2020

    Bookmarker's Notes

    "If you refuse me now," Daenerys continues, "I promise that you will not have the forces to challenge me when this is over. And I can also promise that I won't be as forgiving." Her face screws into a sharp mask, torchlight flickering over the angles of it in a way not unlike the whip of dragon's wings. "Kneel now, and I will take you under my protection. Choose me – now. Acknowledge your rightful ruler – here, now – and I shall burn your enemies to ash. I shall – "

    "He cannot kneel."

    Daenerys snaps her jaw closed tight at the interruption, gaze swinging toward the source.

    Sansa sucks a sharp breath in at the words, glancing down to Bran beside her, her hand releasing Arya with a jolt.

    Daenerys grinds her jaw, slow and concealed behind a perfectly poised smile. "My dear Lord Stark, I understand you Northerners and your pride but – "

    "He cannot kneel," Bran says more firmly, eyes a deceivingly passive grey, "Because you are neither the last Targaryen nor the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."

    Daenerys clamps her mouth shut, eyes wide and piercing, a threatening howl of dragons echoing through the night air outside.

    Everyone stills at Bran's words.

    Sansa looks down at her brother, a hand coming up to brace along his shoulder. "Bran," she croaks out, voice sore from disuse. "What do you mean?"

    He levels her with a docile look, face as blank as the withering snow. "He's not a bastard at all. He's not even our father's son," he tells her, and everything goes white in her head – static.

    A shuddering breath leaves Arya beside her, her sister gripping at the arm of Bran's chair, leaning around it to look him in the eye. "Bran," she says, further words failing her.

    A murmur starts amongst the lords, a rush of wind through the room, and Sansa is dizzy, winded, barely aware of her hand slipping from Bran's shoulder, or the brace of Brynden's hand at her back when she sways.

    "He is the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark," Bran says without preamble, gaze lifting toward Daenerys. "And you should kneel before your king."

    -----

    Davos is true to his word, the harrowing truth behind Jon's condition never leaving that bloodied chamber. But word spreads of Jon's true parentage. The wounded soldiers, in their beds of straw lining the corridors, whisper it through the halls.

    A Targaryen. A trueborn one at that.

    An imposter.

    Sansa comes upon one such whispering horde of Northmen just when Lord Glover, with his one missing eye and half-burnt face, grabs a loose-lipped soldier by the collar and drags him up, snarling in his face. "And what Targaryen ever died for the North?" he bellows in the man's sheet-pale face, shaking him. "What Targaryen ever bled for us the way Jon Snow has?"

    The man splutters in his grasp, hands clawing at the fist at his throat.

    "I know no king but King Jon of House Stark," he roars, spit flying in his rage. "And I swear, on the old gods and the new, that I will gut the man who besmirches his name, do you understand me?"

    The man in his grasp nods sharply, gulping his fear down, sighing in relief when Lord Glover drops him back to the floor.

    Sansa stands at the end of the hall, watching with a lung-tingling fascination.

    Lord Glover seems to notice her then, dipping into a slight bow at her presence, a hand at his chest. "My queen," he says, and Sansa's breath catches in her throat at the address.

    She stares at him, eyes unblinking, hands bunching in her skirts.

    He does not move until she nods her dismissal, and then he's sweeping from the hall, his cloak billowing in his wake. She does not notice the curious stares of the soldiers. She watches the space he once occupied, heart thrumming in her chest, throat parched.

    "My queen."

    Sansa retreats from the hall without further word.

    A new whisper begins, this one voiced in reverence.

    The White Wolf and the Red Queen.

    It spills over the castle, past the walls, echoing from ear to ear – until they are lore, as entrenched in the Northern spirit as snow is to winter.

  4. Public Bookmark 38

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    Jaime Lannister finds his way to the Vale, thinking that Alayne Stone would need rescuing. Instead, he finds that Sansa Stark has already rescued herself.

    He's been pledged to two kings and a queen, broken his word to them all. She's his last chance for honor, and Jaime intends to keep his promises this time.

    Language:
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    11 Jan 2020

    Bookmarker's Notes

    In the end, the crossbowman at Jaime’s side has the honor of killing the slimy Lord Frey. The castle is ceded almost immediately, Walder Frey’s remaining sons dropping their weapons and shouting, “Yield!” the moment their father is slain.

    It does not change their fate. Lady Stark has every Frey man in the keep put to death after a short trial. Their fast surrender does nothing to replace their crimes at the Red Wedding.

    “You did well,” Lady Sansa says, after the executions. She had been present for each one, all forty of them, had heard all their last words, their spit curses and tears. Her hands are tight at her sides, face hard as stone.

    He wants to see her smile again.

    The realization hits Jaime unexpectedly, and he is left speechless in its wake. She doesn’t matter to you, he scolds himself. You are here to get her North, nothing more.

    “You did well, too,” he says, almost cursing himself for saying anything at all. His mind screams at him to leave her, to think about his sister, but his mouth forms the words without leave. “I think...I do believe your mother and brother would be proud.”

    Her eyes flicker to his, blue as the sea in Lannisport. She looks unsure, scared, if only for the flicker of a moment, before she looks away. “Thank you,” she says swiftly. “That--I do wonder that, sometimes.”

  5. Public Bookmark 20

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    “We can leave here and not look back,” he says, as he steps nearer to her, unsure of how close to get to this sister of his, this sister who had only ever offered him cold, blue Tully eyes and a frost-lined frown that had mirrored her lady mother’s. “We can start over,” he adds softly, and he knows he has her then, can tell by the broken, tear-laced sigh she delivers, her breath visible even in the warmth of Jon’s solar.

    OR the one where Jon and Sansa escape to Braavos before the BotB.

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    09 Jan 2020

    Bookmarker's Notes

    It’s easy to pretend, he thinks, as they walk along the shoreline, with waves lapping at their feet and Sansa letting her hand brush against his, as their bare feet leave imprints in the sand. Easy to pretend that he still looks upon her like a sister whose head had been filled with songs about knights and golden-haired princes instead of a sister who has come back to him in a woman’s body and skin made of steel.

    But it’s at night, where pretense becomes difficult and Jon has to pretend he doesn’t feel the soft skin of her breast brush against his arm, as he wraps himself around her, his chest perfectly aligned against her back. Has to pretend that his thigh has managed to slip between hers on its own accord, in the middle of the night. Has to pretend he won’t wake up hard and straining in his breeches in the morning, trying not to rock into her with his need, as she slumbers besides him.

    (Jon wonders if she pretends too, wonders if years spent with Lannisters and Boltons has made her share the same base desires as him).