authorsnotes: had this idea for a while, pulled the trigger, bonappetite!

this story has undergone editing in january 2023, plot, ship, storyline are all the same, the story has just been improved with grammar/writing style/minor changes to allow for continued updates - I do recommend a re-read before the new chapter is posted!

this story clearly diverts heavily from canon, and is 70/30 books/show. ofc this is jonsa, don't like? don't read.

I've got the general sl mapped out, and will now be trying to update more regularly!

songrecs: jenny of oldstones - florence and the machine

'Kill the boy Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born'

- Maester Aemon to Jon Snow

-x-

"This will work"

Famous last words one might say. When was the last time anyone had said those words preceding something that worked? When was the last time those words had ended in jubilation and success? Not despair and misery? When was the last time he had said those words only to be met with disappointment?

Honestly, he didn't want to think about those words, the certainty in which he tried to say them, but with a tinge of doubt tacked onto the end.

It had all started one night, about two months ago, when they had been sat in front of the fire, bowls of soup warm in their hands; just as it had been when they had reunited. She had his cloak around her shoulders and was snuggled into it, winter was biting, even for them, and the fire had provided little relief. And so, they had moved closer together, warming one another, her breath warm on his neck, his fingers dancing over her shoulder, and spoke of times long gone, as they often did.

She had spoken of their time as children; when she had snuck into the kitchen to steal lemon cakes and Lord Stark had caught her with a barely contained smile. He had spoken of their time as teenagers, sparring with Robb and running around with Bran. She had spoken fondly of the rare times she and Arya had gotten along, he had spoken of when Rickon had been born and they had all promised to protect the youngest of the pack.

So many memories, so many beautiful memories they reminisced upon time and time again. They had spoken of finding the direwolfs too, of Lady and Ghost, the latter curled at their feet, the former long gone.

After that the nostalgia had come to a pause; it seemed everything after that day had gone wrong. Everything after the King had come to Winterfell had ended in utter misery, and there had been no turning back from that point on, a point that had almost defined the Stark family, in scattering the pack for good.

'We never should have left Winterfell'

And wasn't that the truth.

"I wish we could go back" She had said gently, tears biting at her eyes then, and if he was the kind to cry he would have been right there with her, only he hadn't cried in years, he could still feel her sorrow, as it was his own too, but still no tears would come for him, not anymore.

There was too much coldness in him for tears now.

"Me too" He had responded before putting his arm around her and placing a kiss to her forehead. They had held onto one another tightly for a few moments, before she had spoke again, the tears unshed, and replaced with determination, a look that she turned on him.

The look that often preceded some scheme of hers, a look he had long become used to and yet still made him feel uneasy, for seeing it he knew she was about to drag him into some plan of hers, and as always, he would agree; how could he not?

"What if we could go back?" She had said, her entire face alight then, a look of hope on her face that he had not seen in a very, very long time. His own expression had been wary, confused ... what was she talking about? Had the small glass of mead she'd had at dinner addled her? (Not that he'd dare suggest as such).

"Sansa, what do you...? Are you okay?" He had started the question but then she had stood in a whirl to her feet, his cloak dropping to the floor, leaving her in only her white nightgown, but she either hadn't felt the cold or managed to ignore it... how he was unsure, but he did know Sansa, he knew when she set her mind to something she was a force to be reckoned with, and wouldn't be stopped, no matter the circumstance.

Often, he didn't argue with her on such points, but now? He frankly had no idea what to say, or what she was getting at. He had asked if she were okay, but she didn't even acknowledge his concern for the moment, too caught up in whatever idea that had sparked in her like a freshly lit torch.

"Jon, after everything we've seen, everything we've faced?" It was then he twigged where she was going with this, and he too stood to his feet to take her hands in his, to stop her getting carried away with herself, to try and calm her from this ludicrous thought she'd concocted. He could understand it, of course he could, but it didn't make it any less unlikely, didn't make it any less insane. "Are you telling me this isn't possible?!"

"Sansa" He had heard the condescending tone to his voice as he said it and had winced at the sound before shifting his tone to one of comfort, but firm, "Some things are out of our reach, some things ... they just can't be done" To their dismay, many things were out of reach for them, as much as they may wish otherwise, some barriers couldn't be broken.

"But can you tell me Jon, can you tell me point blank this can't be done? After everything we've seen? The Others? You coming back from the dead? Giants and the Children and all manner of creatures?! And you're saying this is out of reach?" She had asked, and she seemed calmer then, as though she was already sure that it could be done, and that was more frightening than any mania, that she was sure of it already.

It was just … what she was asking to be done, it couldn't be … but if it could?

It was something they had dreamed about, something that if could be accomplished would be worth every sacrifice to do so. He too had felt a flare of hope, but Jon was not an optimist, not like she could sometimes be. His time at the Wall and then countless war had crushed any slither of optimism in him, he was a cynic through and through now, and Sansa was the one to hope.

She still retained some part of the girl who'd left Winterfell, with all she'd braved, Jon wasn't sure there was any of his old childhood self.

The darkness had stamped that out in him.

"No, I can't, but Sansa … some things are simply beyond our reach" He had tried to be gentle, not wanting to upset her and yet having to remind of her reality, this couldn't be done, it was insane to even wish.

And yet she had seemed unperturbed, not even slightly shaken by his words before saying, "Sounds impossible Jon, not is impossible" And then she had planted a kiss on his cheek before hurrying off. He had followed, grabbing his own cloak off the floor to take to her. The castle had been dead at that time of night, so she needn't worry about anyone seeing her in nothing but her nightgown, but the cold was bad enough to sting.

So, he had followed her, to the library, where they had stayed all night researching, and had done so the next night and the night after. He wasn't sure how she'd convinced him, and yet he had become as committed as she, mainly because he didn't want to snuff that hope away that she had decided to cling onto, even if he couldn't quite hope himself.

For months they had survived on minimal sleep, running their Kingdom during the day, and then researching at night. Most nights they fell asleep in one another's arms but with books still strewn over their bed. They sifted through forgotten tombs and scrolls in High Valyrian (thankfully Jon was proficient enough), they wrote pages of notes and throughout it remained with the same attitude; Sansa with her continued hope, and Jon with his thinly veiled cynicism.

Initially Jon hadn't even entertained the idea, and yet Sansa's eternal optimism had stuck with him, and each night though he convinced himself he was doing this for her, part of him was going along with it and as the weeks passed, he found himself, not quite hoping, that was too strong a word for Jon's quiet contemplation on the matter. He couldn't hope, but he could hold on to hers.

Now they had become transfixed on the idea they couldn't stand to let go. And so, the research had continued night after night, they shouldered the responsibilities of the day, and then at night dedicated themselves to their research. It was crazy, this had all come from an errant thought and yet they had dedicated themselves to it fully, as though this were their life's purpose.

The idea of it, the hope was too much to give up on, even with each book producing nothing, and each plan down the drain, they continued to hope ... and then finally two months earlier Sansa had hit a thought.

"What if what we want isn't in a book?" Sansa had said aloud one night in the library, it had been a weary day at court, and Jon had near been falling asleep over an ancient Valyrian scroll on patterns of time, when Sansa had spoken, and he had looked across at her. If anyone could rouse him from near slumber it was Sansa, and she knew it as she smiled at him.

"What do you mean?" He had asked, his accent thick with tiredness. He had felt ready to drop, and yet though months of little sleep may have been catching up with him he wasn't ready to give up, not yet, not after they'd committed so much time, not after he had promised her, he would keep trying, Jon kept his promises, particularly to his wife.

"What if we need to find someone who knows of this? Not rely on books?" She said, her face almost inquisitive in her idea. He too knew he looked puzzled for a moment - find someone? Who could possibly harness the power of what they wished to do? Who could possibly hold such abilities?

He had felt his blood run almost cold then, as it always did when he thought of her and what she had done for him, or maybe better phrased; to him.

He would never regret what she did, he, but he knew it hadn't been normal, he hadn't felt quite right since. Yes, he was himself, but not whole, never again would he be; as though a part of him had been chiselled away when he had been pulled back from wherever he had been, lost in the darkness she'd ripped him out of.

The Red Woman had pulled him back from the unknown darkness and since then part of him had been missing, a small part yet, but a part all the same. And as much as he loathed to see her again, he knew Sansa was right. If she had been capable of dragging him back from death, what else was she capable of?

It wasn't out of the realm of possibilities, was it? And as soon as he had mentioned this to Sansa her eyes had lit up, renewed with a fresh hope that had been dwindling; as though they had never given up and had constantly felt as though they were getting closer ... it wasn't easy; each week passing without results. But then, this had been a new lead, a new way forward, and as soon as he suggested it, she had set to work writing the raven scroll to the Southern court, and an hour later the raven had flown; inviting the red woman to the Northern court for the first time since the war.

She had happily headed the call, and a month later they had laid out their proposal to her. His Hand had protested at her coming to their court but Jon always good at diplomacy had soothed his worries. And so, they had discussed with her for a while, laying out all possibilities. They had been uplifted that she had heard of such magic's but could not perform them herself. It had still been a start, it had been something, and that had triggered the next stage of their journey.

And that had led them here.

Weeks of consulting with those across the sea, weeks of securing items, of working everything out and finally they were here, in front of the ancient Weirwood tree of the Winterfell Godswood, dressed in black, everything in place, the snow was ever falling, Sansa trembled in the cold, Jon did not flinch.

It had seemed ludicrous now they were here and yet as they had joined hands, hers shaking and his steady they knew this was their shot, this was their chance. They had worked for the better part of a year towards this, the chance to change things, the chance to turn back the clock. And now they were here, and she uttered those words.

"This will work"

And though he should have responded with something positive he couldn't help but blurt out the words he had been thinking for weeks, the thoughts that had been biting at the back of his mind since she had convinced him to start down this path.

It had been annoying him for weeks on end, eating at him and yet he hadn't said a word, not wanting to upset her, not wanting to worry her, but now? Now they were here, at the end of the journey? He couldn't hold back his thoughts as much as he tried.

"But should it?"

He watched as she bit down on her lip, evidently, she had, had the same thought and yet she spoke without any doubt, "This is what we've been working for, this is what we wanted, to turn back the clock"

"But what if we forget? What if we go back and we're not us anymore? What if we don't remember this future?" He said ... "The Red Woman said it's a possibility, what if the possibility comes true?" He asked in almost a whisper, "What if you go back to looking at me with contempt? What if I go back to not speaking to you? What if ..." He paused then, his real worry that had been eating at him finally coming out, "What if you marry someone else?"

And then her face softened, and she walked to him, still clutching his hand. She was within an inch of him, and her lips brushed against his for a mere moment, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

"That will not happen, we will remember, we will change things, that is why we are doing this. We will remember, we will change things" She repeated, then paused to give him a proper kiss, and he felt his worries melt away at both her words and her touch, she sounded so sure, how could he not believe her?

"I will always be yours Jon, in this life, the next and the past, I will always be yours"

"As I am yours Sansa, always" He repeated back to her, and he felt a hint of a smile pull at her lips, and his expression mirrored hers. She waited, waited for him to nod, and he did, and then they turned back to the Heart Tree, clutching each other's hands so tightly they were almost one, it was time, it was now or never.

The hour struck midnight and he spoke the words the Red Woman's contact across the sea had taught them, the woman who had worn a veil over her face and told them she had been waiting for them when they met. The prophet had called him the Prince and Sansa a Queen, when Sansa had corrected the prophet that Jon was a King the woman in the veil had simply laughed.

Still, she had taught them the words, instructed them how to make a paste that they dashed across one another's foreheads, had sourced them a knife that they both used to slash across their palms, and wished them luck before cocking her head and laughing again, disappearing in a plume of smoke as she did so.

And yet they followed the steps she had given, the words they didn't understand, the paste made from weirwood sap and ashes of a flame he had bled into, their blood then trickling onto the weirwood bark and the ground at their feet. The clock ticked past the midnight hour and they both fell to their knees, and waited, waited.

"Nothings happening" Sansa said and he could hear a hint of panic in her voice, and yet he didn't move to comfort her, as he could see, see past the weirwood tree, see over the hill … a smoke, a thick black smoke coming for them, that moved too quickly and made everything crumble in its wake.

"It worked" He said almost in awe and then he heard her gasp as she saw what he was seeing; the world melting around them, the thick black smoke turning everything to ash in a way they both knew wasn't natural. It had worked, and Jon pulled Sansa to him, pulled her close and to his chest.

"Close your eyes Sansa" He said simply and he knew she did, as he closed his too, and waited, waited, as the smoke surrounded them both, and he felt them lift off the floor, heard Sansa's gasp of fear and hope, he waited, waited, waited, eyes squeezed shut, face turned into Sansa's hair, they waited, waited, waited, until they heard a clap of thunder, and everything went black.

It reminded him of the darkness upon his death, but the light that followed was new.

thoughts?

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as you can see this is firm jonsa, will involve plenty of angst, fluff, darkness, time fuckery and au'ness. there will be more magic and heavy involvement of asoiaf lore.

speak soon