authorsnotes: here we go, I promised you an overdue conversation ... in a sense
also house of the dragon is back and it is so damn gooooooooooooooooooood, and the writing inspo is firing, I'm so happy
songrecs: work song - hozier
"You marry me"
Jon was sure the roaring in his ears that followed such a statement couldn't be heard by everyone. No one flinched or moved, but it was so loud in his ears he nearly did. Instead, he swallowed, allowed himself one second, just one, to breathe, and then the roaring stopped.
The roar had sounded like dragons, surrounding him in this moment as he too felt surrounded, too closed in, had it only be in his head? A scream of how quickly events had turned?
He looked across the table to the Dragon Queen, Daenerys as he'd called her last night, like she had it all figured out. All problems put to bed and tucked with a ribbon. Bringing together North and South, no question to the successions, all of her dragons kept under one roof, literally.
And even Jon, from a detached perspective could see it making sense. Two great powers coming together, wait, what was she saying?
"The South has always thrived best with a strong North, and vice versa, this will ensure that" Again not incorrect. "This will ensure a strong continent"
And yet that wasn't all that mattered, was it? Was it?
She was his aunt, and yes, he'd not been raised that way, to have her as family, to have that taboo, but the Northerners didn't do that, she was still his aunt. And shouldn't he find it wrong? Revulsion and disgust mixing in as she spoke of them being married? Family? He glanced at Sansa then for some reason, they'd barely been raised as siblings, … why was he thinking of that now? Why was he focusing on Sansa now?
Why was he thinking of Sansa when another woman had proposed marriage?
He looked away, not noticing, self-absorbed for once, not noticing that Sansa was fighting horror emerging in her eyes, only her stoicism kept it flickering past there, where none but Jon could see, where Sansa swallowed, her hands brittle, white knuckled as the Dragon Queen spoke.
Jon, caught up in his own head, Jon for once stuck in his own mind, Jon for once not noticing the most important person in the world next to him, terrified.
How much could ones life change over such a short time?
People returning from the dead, his entire parentage questioned and turned on its head, Sansa being by his side throughout all of it but … feelings squashed, not confronted, and pushed aside even now, a proposal, how could everything be so different? How could life be so different?
As happy as he was to be here, defending his family, the Starks alive, Sansa with him always, sometimes he longed for the ease of the Wall, as hard as a life it had been it hadn't been this complicated, or rather he hadn't been, a no-name bastard who didn't matter, it had been easy.
Now he was not just half Stark, King in the North and the Head of the Stark family, even with those returning, he was also half Targaryen, the last male Targaryen, and potential Heir to the Throne.
He meant something now, even if he hated that his name, his birth had to be the thing to do that, not his worth or achievements, just that he had different blood.
Stark blood, Targaryen blood.
Kings blood.
"Theres no need for any fanfare" Tyrion was speaking now, Jon was back to himself, but he didn't speak, he listened, and screwed his hands into tight fists, knuckles white, matching Sansa's.
"We can marry you quickly, have a celebration when we take Kings Landing, a coronation, focus on the war effort, explain your heritage Jon, signify two Targaryens joining as was the way of old"
Marry quickly… be a married man, to a woman he didn't love, to his aunt, to a family member.
Somehow the last part made him flinch.
To be King.
But he already was one; King of the South then? But he glanced at Daenerys, smiling, and yet there was a flicker of something in her eye; would she accept he'd be King? He doubted it.
And then finally, he properly looked at Sansa, and he saw.
He saw, as he was lost in his own head, contemplating his identity being ripped away, examined, sewn hastily back together and thrust back at him, she was battling something else.
But what?
He could see it in her eyes though, a flicker, something quick, just as it had been with the Queen, but he saw it, and knew he needed to talk to her alone. She didn't reach for his hand, didn't reach for him, and was silent, and that concerned him alone.
And he noticed with a quick glance to the side that whilst the Queen and Tyrion watched him, waiting, Varys was watching Sansa with an inscrutable expression on his face.
Jon felt a need to get Sansa out of here, and now.
"It's something I'll need to think on" He said firmly, and then he reached for Sansa's hand, took it, perhaps ill advised to do so, but he took it, felt instantly better, was sure he felt her squeeze his, took it and turned.
And made a choice.
"Jon-" Daenerys began, but he just offered her a short, firm smile, and swept Sansa from the room, his hand firm in hers, her in a whirl of skirts following him, away from all of this.
And they left behind three Southern advisors who shared a look, a significant look, a look of worry.
Two at Jon, one to Sansa.
But Jon didn't look back.
The war camp around them was ignored as she and Jon hurried through it, a little too hurried to be casual, but not so fast in a sprint to make their fear, their haste known.
Jon gripped her hand, and she squeezed his, a little too tight but Jon didn't flinch, didn't complain as she gripped his hand and hurried next to him, back to their tent, their only home here, not private, not hidden, but all they had.
Men bowed to Jon as they passed, heads bowed, they all respected their King, they all showed her a nod too, as their Lady of Winterfell, even though they didn't have to, they did, and she smiled for that, to each and every one of them, tense as she was, she always had a smile for her people.
Even now, even as her world felt like it was falling apart.
What was she supposed to do?
The Dragon Queen … her idea, Sansa wanted to be sick at the thought, how could it be that she had just realized the extent of her feelings for Jon? Feelings she knew she'd had for a while but ignored, shoved aside, denied to herself, and now she had accepted them, now she had known she needed to act on them, Jon had a marriage proposal?
She'd have been grumpy at the timing and teased Jon in any other world, but in this world she wasn't in the mood for teasing, or laughter, or strategy.
She was simply put; terrified.
She couldn't imagine it, Jon, her Jon, and there that spoke enough; her Jon, that was how she thought of him, how could she see him in the arms of another woman?
And not just another woman, a Queen? Everything Sansa wasn't.
'You shall be Queen someday…'
And yet here she was just a Lady, facing a Queen, Jon in the middle.
She wanted to laugh or cry, Jon in the middle and he didn't even know it.
She had to tell him, that was her thought as he clutched her hand, and she thought the simple prospect of he might never again, and wanted to weep, she had to tell him, and yet as he impatiently shoved the tent flap aside and hurried her inside, for a minute she froze.
Froze, because where did she start?
And worse, should she?
She had resolved to tell Jon, not half a day before, but that was before this, before a Dragon Queen staring down Jon, enticing him in to stand by her side, stop any war and save the North. A Dragon Queen who'd flickered her gaze to her and looked, looked at Sansa not with anger or retribution or even pity, no, but with something akin to smugness, Sansa was sure.
Or she was just imagining it, but still it stung.
Daenerys Targaryen was going to take Jon away from her, and the only way to even potentially stop that from happening would be for her to … for her to admit her feelings and hope Jon wasn't horrified.
What a plan.
She recovered herself enough to look over at Jon, and yet he was silent too, still clutched her hand, but was silent, likely as shocked as her, and yet she reached for his other hand, for once Jon couldn't save her, shake her from her shock and kiss her forehead, instead she had to be the one to state her feelings, her intentions, she had to stop this marriage.
Didn't she?
She tried not to, tried not to let her mind think on how this marriage was tactically by far the best plan. It prevented any Northern or Southern skirmish, it prevented any further war, Kings Landing would fall easily to two dragon riders and a joint Targaryen and Stark army. Even more, the Vale, the Riverlands, Dorne, the two would have 4 kingdoms without lifting a sword.
And then the North, the North wouldn't be independent, but one of their own would be King, King of it all, Robb would likely be reinstated as Lord of Winterfell, or her Father first, then Robb, and the thing Daenerys had said-
'The South has always thrived best with a strong North, and vice versa, this will ensure that'
Would be true too, and wasn't she right?
Was Sansa failing her people by trying to stop this for her own selfish wants?
Was it right for her to try and prevent peace?
She felt sick, as she had in the Queens tent, water rushing through her head, her ears, a churning in her stomach, fear so acute she was sure she was back as a child, in one of her nightmares, or returned to Kings Landing and creeping around the corridors terrified of being seen by the King or Queen.
Fear so acute, losing Jon was surely the scariest thing she'd ever faced.
And now she had paused, even as she gripped his hands, paused in stopping it, even if she could, for duty.
What had Jon said to her once?
'Duty is the death of love'
Was he right?
"Jon I.." She stumbled, to say something, as Jon looked up at her, and that pierced something in her heart, to see his purple eyes, guarded for a moment, guarded from her, and that fear pierced her once more, was he, was he?
"Sansa" He interrupted her, and she felt a thousand things, a thousand fears and thoughts, her mind screamed at her to interrupt him, stop him saying the logical thing; that marrying the Queen made sense, that it didn't mean bending the North, it meant saving it and all of them, she wanted to scream to stop him, but she stood paralysed, her hands gripping his harder than she knew, her fingernails digging into his flesh, drawing blood, dragons blood …
Could she stop him? Stop him leaving her?
"J…" She began, choking out his name, to say something anything.
But before she could say anything else, collect herself some, Jon surprised her.
Something she didn't know he could have done, right here, right now as she tried to figure out.
'Love is the death of duty'
Would her love destroy his duty?
"I love you" Blurted out, harsh and quick, the words tumbling out, they couldn't be stopped, they were fierce, and real, and sincere.
But they were not from her.
"I love you" It was Jon who spoke, his eyes widening, no longer guarded, fear flooding into his purple gaze, "I can't marry her" He said quickly, squeezed her hands back, stepped closer, Sansa didn't flinch, didn't move back, she stepped closer to, even frozen, she wanted to be closer to him.
"I can't marry her when I love you"
Love.
"I-" She wanted to scream, she near collapsed from it, he loved her?! Had he known? Had he been suffering alongside her or for longer? Were they two fools who had denied themselves? She wanted to cry, to laugh, to jump, up in the air and then into Jons arms, Ghost glanced over from the fire, could he see his master and mistress finally figuring out what everyone else had seen for so long?
"Jon I-" How could she not say it back? She would and she'd say it triumphantly, gladly, happily! "I-"
But this time it wans't a declaration of love that interrupted her.
It was a scream, several screams, a dragons roar, and then another.
War had come.
As he'd said it Jon had known it was true.
It didn't matter that he hadn't really considered it before, other than knowing certain connections he made to Sansa, certain thoughts he'd link were not how one should treat a sister.
And once, just once, when they'd been in his solar together, Sansa had slumped on her chair, he'd carried her to her room, and lingered, swiped a hand to wipe a hair from her face, she'd smiled and he'd felt something … a tug, something deeper, something that he'd only felt once before then.
But he'd turned away, pushed it away, and now they were here.
How could he push it away any longer?
He hadn't really known himself, but now as he said it, Sansa's hands clutching his, his own shaking were she not gripping them, he knew it to be true, how had he been such a fool not to know it?
Every touch, ever smile, Sansa standing on the battlements with snow in her hair, the brush of his lips across her forehead, how she'd lean in without thinking, her lips on his cheeks and the warmth she'd leave behind there. Her smile in his Council meetings as he offered her a grin, her laughter at the dinner table as she drank a cup of wine, flushed cheeks and a smile only for him. Her arm in his as they patrolled the battlements, her smile for their people, her advice for him, her confidence only for him.
And even when their family returned, all she'd wanted, all he'd wanted, she had stood by him, shut down any idea of her not being their King, had declared him so, stood by his side and proclaimed him.
How had he not realized he loved her then?
When she had held him close in the Godswood, her arms around him, tucking him into her, her sweet-smelling hair shielding him from the world as it swung around them. Her words of comfort, her smile for him even when she knew he was not Stark, not just Stark, but Targaryen too.
Her fear for him when he'd gone to Rhaegal, her fear now, did she feel the same? Did she fear him marrying the Queen for more than her fear for the North? He did not know, he could only hope.
He loved her, he knew that, had for a long time but refused to accept it, he did now, the weight sliding from his shoulders as he said it, "I love you" He knew it to be true, as true as he was breathing.
But of course, things weren't simple in wartime, as Sansa opened her mouth, could she feel it back? Could he hope she wasn't disgusted? Viewed him as a brother? Could he dare to hope she wouldn't shun him?
Fear had stopped him before, without him knowing it, and felt a flicker of it now.
Would she shun him? Could he handle if she did?
He didn't think so.
And yet, war did not stop, nor give grace to the mortals speaking beneath the blanket of it, as he heard screams, the roars of the dragons, Rhaegal he could pick out with ease, he knew, this conversation could not continue, or begin really.
Not now.
"I have to go" He said, reaching for his cloak, there was no time for anything but that, no armour, he grabbed Longclaw, strapped it to his hip, and then, on impulse took her hands, and pressed a kiss to her joined knuckles, swift and fierce, but he did, and was relieved, hopeful even when she didn't push him away, instead she nodded, fearstruck.
But as he went to turn, she reached for him, and this time she on tiptoe leaned up, kissed his cheek, fiercer than she once had, but warmth still followed it, and then a whisper to him, "Come back to me"
A nod was all he could give, a nod as real as a vow to him, before he was forced to turn away, turn away and enter the battle.
With the warmth of Sansa's lips on his cheek, and the hope to return to her.
ahhhhhh I know I'm terrible, more to come I promise
if you know me you know I love a good cliffhanger lol, I can't help it, but next war, this story isn't all politics and romance, trust me
do review if you can!
speak soon