His thoughts kept returning to Arya. There is no way I can help her. I put all kin aside when I said my words. If one of my men told me his sister was in peril, I would tell him that was no concern of his. Once a man had said the words his blood was black. Black as a bastard’s heart. (Jon, A Dance with Dragons)
“Rhaegar won, damn him. I killed him, Ned, I drove the spike right through that black armor into his black heart, and he died at my feet. They made up songs about it.” (Eddard, A Game of Thrones)
“Snow,” an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. (Jon, A Dance with Dragons)
Yet when the jousting began, the day belonged to Rhaegar Targaryen. The crown prince wore the armor he would die in: gleaming black plate with the three-headed dragon of his House wrought in rubies on the breast. (Eddard, A Game of Thrones)
Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. (Bran, A Game of Thrones)
“Your father’s lands are beautiful,” he said. His silvery hair was blowing in the wind, and his eyes were a deep purple, darker than this boy’s. (The Griffin Reborn, A Dance with Dragons)
BROKE VOWS FOR A STARK GIRL
Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl. (Jon, A Dance with Dragons)
Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands died for it. (The Kingbreaker, A Dance with Dragons)
BITTER RIVALRY OVER A STARK GIRL
He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest.I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell…I want my bride back… I want my bride back… I want my bride back… (Jon, A Dance with Dragons)
“In my dreams, I kill him every night,” Robert admitted. “A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves.” (Eddard, A Game of Thrones)
TRADITIONAL FAMILY LOOK
He had the Stark face if not the name: long, solemn, guarded, a face that gave nothing away. Whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son. (Tyrion, A Game of Thrones)
Viserys, was her first thought the next time she paused, but a second glance told her otherwise. The man had her brother’s hair, but he was taller, and his eyes were a dark indigo rather than lilac. (Daenerys, A Clash of Kings)
BORN IN GRIEF
The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister’s eyes. Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. (Eddard, A Game of Thrones)
“It was a prince that was promised, not a princess. Rhaegar, I thought … the smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. (Samwell, A Feast for Crows)
FATHER WAS HIS UNCLE
The thought of Jon filled Ned with a sense of shame, and a sorrow too deep for words. If only he could see the boy again, sit and talk with him… (Eddard, A Game of Thrones)
The new king had already provided the realm with an heir in the person of his son Rhaegar, born amongst the flames of Summerhall. Aerys and his queen, his sister Rhaella, were young, and it was anticipated that they would have many more children. (The World of Ice and Fire)
Jon Snow would see through the impostesure at once. Lord Stark’s sullen bastard had known Jeyne Poole, and he had always been fond of his little half-sister Arya. (Theon, The Winds of Winter)
"Not sour, no, but … there was a melancholy to Prince Rhaegar, a sense …” The old man hesitated again. (Daenerys, A Storm of Swords)
Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his brother was strong and fast. (Bran, A Game of Thrones)
It was not the first time the queen had made note of Waters, a lean young man with grey-green eyes and long silver-gold hair. The first time she had seen him, for half a heartbeat she had almost thought Rhaegar Targaryen had returned from the ashes. (Cersei, A Feast for Crows)
She was looking at him the way she used to look at him at Winterfell, whenever he had bested Robb at swords or sums or most anything. (Jon, A Storm of Swords)
“Ser Jorah named Rhaegar the last dragon once. He had to have been a peerless warrior to be called that, surely?”
“Your Grace,” said Whitebeard, “the Prince of Dragonstone was a most puissant warrior, but …” (Daenerys, A Storm of Swords)
The thing with Yooka Laylee and JonTron is kind of sad, because by removing Jon, Playtonic is now facing the kind of backlash and fiscal nightmare they were probably trying to avoid by removing him: apparently a lot of their backers are fans and supporters of Jon and are forcibly getting refunds via chargeback.
Honestly the whole thing could have been avoided if they had solicited the community (especially their financial backers) for their thoughts, and maybe put the issue with JonTron to a vote. I’m sure they just were trying to do what they thought was best for business, but by failing to actually gauge consumer opinion, they’ve really gone and shot themselves in the foot.
Me and my mother had a falling out. I had been depressed and it got worse with every one of our fights. My dad was no help, either, only siding with whichever argument benefitted him.
One day, I decided to “rebel.” Instead of letting them binge watch another show on netflix, I snagged our ps3 remote and put on YouTube and ALL of on the spot.
By time we got to the new-er seasons of OTS with the new set, me and my mom were already in tears laughing, my dad was laughing, and it was just all around an amazing, happy, memorable moment.
To this day, every Saturday that On The Spot gets posted to youtube, we watch it together. We also got into other rooster teeth shows, like Ten (and soon to be 11) Little Roosters, Camp Camp (we have matching message tones for each other of Neil yelling “You shut your whore mouth Harrison) and Social Disorder, along with tons of the one-off shorts and Achievement Hunter shows like Play Pals, any Genital Jousting episode, even the GTA Heists!
But it all started, with Jon Motherfuckin’ Risinger.
So thank you Jon. Thank you for OTS. Thank you for being yourself. Thank you for existing.
i tried to kill tom, so i fired. and then i missed. and then i missed again. and then i fired again, and then i missed, and then i fired, and i fired, and i missed, i missed both times. and then i fired, and then i missed. this went on for several hours. and then i fired, and then i missed, and then i was out of bullets, and then i got sad, i had a popsicle, and i passed out in the snow, and then i woke up, and i reloaded, i fired, and then i missed, and then i fired, and i hit jon but that wasn't who i was going for, so i guess i missed. so i passed out again, and had another popsicle, i had a dream that i was firing at something - i missed. i picked up a snowball, i threw it at him, i missed. I had to put a snowball into my gun, that's my secret weapon, i threw a snowball at him, i missed, i passed out, woke up with a popsicle stick in my mouth.
Prompt: “You might’ve left your shirt in our dorms dryer, so when I did my laundry I took your shirt and now I’m wearing it on purpose oops” – a mix of a few prompts
Bryce took his laundry basket back up the stairs, humming happily to a tune he’d heard earlier, and entered his dorm room.
“Hey Jon,” he greeted his roommate, who was seemingly very busy on his laptop, but Bryce knew otherwise.
Jon looked up and instantly caught a whiff of his bubbly attitude, “Hey Bryce… Did you see him today?” Despite already knowing the answer, Jon asked with a large smirk and gazed back down at his computer.
Bryce blushed and set his basket by their shared dresser.
“Who, Ryan?” he asked nonchalantly, opening up a drawer to begin putting his clothes away.
“Who, Ryan?” Jon mocked, “What the fuck, yes Ryan! I can practically smell your thoughts! I’ve known you for a while, Bryce.”
“Smell my thoughts?” it was Bryce’s turn to mock, making Jon snort.
“Fuck you,” he laughed,
“Did you see him or not?”
“Yeah, I did… I saw him in the laundry room, he smiled at me,” Bryce said, a large smile on his face as he sorted his clothes into the spaces of his designated drawers. Jon smiled knowingly.
But when Bryce picked up a shirt he knew he didn’t own, his heart stopped for a second. Jon peeked over his shoulder to investigate his sudden quietness.
“Is that… his shirt?” Jon sounded just as shocked as Bryce felt.
“Shit, Jon… I didn’t take it on purpose! It must’ve been in the dryer or something… How am I supposed to give it back? ‘Oh, yeah, hey, I was too busy checking you out in the laundry room, I didn’t quite notice you left your shirt in there. Sorry, here’. No, Jon! That’s not how it works!”
The sudden meltdown startled Jon to the very core and all he said was, “Then don’t give it back?”
“What?” Bryce was confused. Jon merely smirked back at him.
“It’s your shirt now,” he replied, giving Bryce a small playful push. It was now Bryce’s turn to be stunned.
So Bryce wore the shirt the next day. It was an extremely soft baseball shirt, sleeves black and the rest heather red. There were three buttons at the collar of the shirt, going down, which if unbuttoned would show plenty of chest. On Bryce at least, it was a bit bigger on him than it would be on Ryan.
As he walked out of the bathroom he heard Jon snicker behind him.
“You’re legit wearing that out?”
“Yeah, I guess…” Jon pulled on his bright blue hoodie and nodded at him.
“Ok then, let’s head on out,”
Bryce fidgeted with the bottom of the shirt the entire car-ride. He hoped to everything good that he wouldn’t see Ryan anytime soon; he probably wouldn’t be able to face him. But knowing his luck, something was bound to fuck him over.
“Oh shit, man! This is my jam, duet NOW!” Jon announced, cranking the music up and singing obnoxiously. Bryce filled in when Jon looked at him and he danced along to the beat.
They pulled into the grocery store parking lot, and Jon reluctantly turned the car off.
“Let’s get whatever we need and get the fuck out,”
“That was the plan,” Bryce informed him. He knew Jon didn’t like going out, but he appreciated that he did anyways.
“Good. You get cereal, I’ll get ramen. Meet me in the chip aisle in 5 minutes sharp,”
“Got it, good luck soldier,” Bryce replied.
“Right back atcha, private. Alright, break!” They high fived and they split to go get the items assigned to them.
Carrying a jumbo sized box of ramen, Bryce swore he saw Ryan while walking to their meet up destination. He knew it wasn’t possible, just his eyes (and probably guilt) playing a trick on him.
He waited in the aisle and Jon was about 10 minutes late. Was this even the right place? That’s when Jon walked down the aisle, talking to the one and only Ryan. He felt like a shirt thief. And technically he was.
“Hey man, sorry I’m late, I found Ryan though,”
“I-I wasn’t looking for him,” he muttered to himself.
“Dude, your shirt is sick. I think I have one just like it,” Ryan sounded as if he were teasing him and he knew Jon said something by the shit eating smirk on his face.
“Huh, that’s crazy.”
“Isn’t it a bit big on you?”
“Eh. I like baggy shirts,” Bryce could not even bring himself to look up from the tiled floor.
“I’m gonna go pick up a few more things, and then I’m gonna go wait in the car. Come on out when you’re ready,” Jon winked and took the box of ramen from Bryce.
“So, a special fairy told me that somebody has a bit of a crush on me,” Ryan said in a sing-song voice.
“Hm, I wonder who that could be,” Bryce still wouldn’t look up, but his eyes just screamed ‘I’M SO SORRY’.
“He just so happens to be wearing my shirt, too,” Ryan sounded as if he was right in front of him. “He’s cute. Super cute. I’ll be honest, I like him too.”
Bryce felt the blush creep up his neck and settle on his ears and cheeks.
“Hey, Bryce. Guess what?” Ryan grabbed Bryce’s face and lifted it up to look at him.
“I like you. A lot, would you consider going on a date with me?” Bryce’s hands gripped at the bottom of the shirt he was wearing as he began to fidget once more. He couldn’t look away any longer; Ryan had their gazes locked together.
Bryce couldn’t even force any words out of his mouth, so he eagerly nodded, making Ryan smile a large toothy smile.
“Cool. And just so you know, Bryce? You can wear my shirts anytime you want to babe.” Ryan winked. “Meet me at the laundry room tomorrow at 2:00.”
He let go of Bryce and sauntered away.
Bryce sped out of the store and back to Jon’s car. He swung the door open and got in quickly.
“I hate you so much,”
“So it went well?”
“It really did… Thank you Jon.”
“What can I say? I’m a good wingman. I do expect a bit of help with someone ya know, if you wanna pay me back…” he said subtly.
What’s with all this Sansa vs Dany shit? Who’s gonna get Jon? Who cares!
Dont get me wrong, I love Jon. The things I would do to him, but…
Dany and Sansa are two badass female characters who have risen from the ashes to create their own destinies. Which is pretty incredible for a show notorious for rape and violence against women. Dany and Sansa could have any man they wanted, or none at all.
And reducing them to, “Lets fight over who ends up with Jon” is just insulting to them both.
“Have you really never seen Pinocchio?”, Jon asks, looking up at him from his lap.
Damian doesn’t know how and when he managed to put his head there. It must’ve happened while he was busy arguing with Dick on why fourteen years old trained assassins should not be forced to watch Disney movies by their self appointed older brothers, or with Tim on who should be the one holding the popcorn bowl, or with Jason and his sideways jokes about becoming a real boy - which Damian didn’t really understood but offended him on a principle. (Movie nights always offers a wide variety of arguments).
“Have you really never seen a pillow?”, Damian mocks, looking down at him. “It doesn’t look like me, in case you were wondering.”
“Was not”, Jon answers with a smile.
Damian growls at him but doesn’t push him on the floor, and his lack of reaction earns him a curious glance from Tim, who’s currently sitting on the couch next to them, the bowl of popcorn in his hands and one of Kon’s long arm wrapped around his shoulders. Damian can feel the tips of his ears reddening under his brother’s stare, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the television screen while he waits for the teasing he knows is coming.
Surprisingly enough, Tim scrunches up the corners of his mouth in what could be described as a knowingly smile, but he doesn’t comment at all - which is kind of a first in Damian’s book, but he’s not going to question his fortune or Tim’s indisputable ulterior motives right now.
He settles back against the couch cushions and pretends to watch the animated nonsense along with Jon and their brothers, while in reality his attention keeps shifting on the solid weight of Jon’s head against his stomach and - a couple of minutes later, after Jon decides Damian’s definitely more comfortable than the couch itself - on the warm touch of Jon’s hands on his thighs.
Overall it’s not a displeasing feeling, and it’s not a totally improper contact either, but the unfamiliarity of the situation makes Damian too self-conscious about it.
Though, thinking about it, he shouldn’t be so surprised about Jon’s confidentiality. He learned long before tonight - and at his own expense - that Jon’s a very physical person with little to no regard altogether for such a basic concept as interpersonal distances.
↳ Arya ran to him for a last hug. “Put down the sword first,” Jon warned her, laughing. She set it aside almost shyly and showered him with kisses. When he turned back at the door, she was holding it again, trying it for balance. “I almost forgot,” he told her. “All the best swords have names.” “Like Ice,” she said. She looked at the blade in her hand. “Does this have a name? Oh, tell me.” “Can’t you guess?” Jon teased. “Your very favorite thing.” Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together: “Needle!” The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north.
Jon Snow may have made it big in the business world, but everyone’s got a nemesis. Sansa Stark may be on the top in the fashion industry, but everyone’s got a bleeding heart. He hates loving her more than he is angry. She hates loving him more than she is sad. They are slowly killing each other in the process of finding their own missing pieces, they can see their ends. But those words turn into a fire in their throats when their bodies melt like snow in the rain. They put each other through hell, but their eyes cry when they tell it’s not love. They’ve mastered the art of keeping it casual, but there is nowhere else they’d rather be.
Shoutout to @janebrkin for the
lovely idea of Jon comforting Sansa during thunderstorms when she was little -
I was inspired by your story and people should go read it! :)
Jon knew it was wrong, truly wrong, because his
father was angry. Lady Catelyn had been known to come down hard on him for some
perceived slight, but his father was fair, and rarely raised his voice. Lord
Stark’s face was stormy now, his grey eyes like chipped flint.
“Never again, Jon, do you understand? You cannot–” Jon had
seen his father at a loss for words before, but never with his mouth working
quite this way. “Sansa is meant for–”
“A prince, I know, father.” Joffrey had pranced into
Winterfell like the spoiled brat he was, and something about the way Sansa
looked at him made Jon’s blood boil.
His father swallowed, then nodded. “Yes. A prince.”
Jon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His father had
ordered him into the Lord’s Chambers and pointed for him to sit, after
bellowing at Jon and Sansa in the godswood. Sansa had fled. “Why were you cruel
to her, father? I gave her the crown. It was my fault. Sansa didn’t do anything
wrong.” Jon wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong either, but he knew Sansa was
His father ran a hand over his face. “I’ll talk to her,
Jon. It’s not your fault, either, you just – you must promise me, now, never to
be alone with Sansa again.”
Jon didn’t fully understand why he had to stay away from
his half-sister, but he swore the oath then and there. He didn’t even risk
saying goodbye to her when he left for the Wall. Sometimes, when he took the
watch at night, he’d look out over the shelf of ice and remember the crown he’d
placed in Sansa’s red hair. He’d whisper a prayer into the cold air that
Joffrey had become the prince Sansa deserved.
It was only flowers. Sansa liked flowers, liked to plait
them in her hair and tuck them into Lady’s collar. So when Jon learned what had
happened to upset her, he picked most of the blue roses in the glass gardens.
He snapped off the thorns and wove a kind of crown –lopsided, hardly the
perfect construction Sansa would have made. Jon might not get along with Sansa
easily, but he cared for her, just like he cared for all his family. Maybe not
quite the same way, since Sansa had come of age and he’d been less able to meet
her eyes. Something tightened in his chest now when he saw her toss her hair
over her shoulder, and he wasn’t inclined to examine the feeling too closely.
Sansa was ecstatic when the royal visit was announced. Jon
would need to practice staying out of the way, but Sansa was to be put forward
as a candidate for betrothal to the Baratheon prince. Sansa had always been a
thoughtful, courteous girl, and she’d made a gift for Joffrey. Jon had seen her
bent over her work in her lap, the tip of her tongue sticking out as she
concentrated. She’d presented Joffrey with a handkerchief, emblazoned with a
golden lion, that even Jon could tell was finely worked. Joffrey had bowed to
her, and Sansa glowed with happiness.
At least, she did until she picked up the handkerchief by
the corner that afternoon, where Joffrey had dropped it in the mud. Joffrey and
his guards had just passed by the training yard, where Robb and Jon were
sparring. The sound of their ugly laughter made Jon angry. He came at Robb
quicker than he should have, and got in a few blows before getting thwacked in
the shoulder by Robb’s wooden sword. He was rubbing his arm as he saw Sansa and
Jeyne walking together.
Robb kept striding towards the gate. Jon saw Sansa
was slumping, with her head down, and he slowed his pace. Being a bastard had
few privileges, but this was one of them. Jon noticed things others didn’t, and
since his station lent him a kind of invisibility, he was able to hear and see
details others missed. He’d surprised his lord father more than once with his
knowledge of the goings-on around the castle.
“I’ll never be able to get it clean, but I suppose it makes
no difference. He didn’t care for it anyway.” Sansa was twisting the dirty
handkerchief in her hands. “Oh Sansa, I’m so sorry, I’m sure he didn’t mean
what he said.” Jeyne sounded as if she didn’t believe her own lie. Sansa had
shaken her head. “It doesn’t matter, Jeyne. I’ll stitch him finer things. I’ll
be more beautiful, I’ll make him love me.” The tremor in Sansa’s voice scared
Jon the most, made him afraid for her, afraid of what she might give away to
this boy. So he decided to give her something of her own.
He’d found her in the godswood the next day, and listened
to her, and held out the makeshift gift. “The crown of love and beauty, for
you, you’re already beautiful, Sansa. He’s your prince, he’ll love you and
treat you kindly. He has to. Any prince would.” You’re worth loving,
he wanted to say, but he thought that might be a step too far, even though it
was true. Jon placed it on her head. She’d smiled, and asked him to play an old
game. Father had crashed through the branches a few minutes later, yanking him
by his injured arm, while Sansa ran.
The stitching, Sansa thought numbly, I’ll never get the mud
out. She’d begged gold thread from her mother, too, to make sure the lion’s
head gleamed. Her favor had floated half-in, half-out of the puddle. Joffrey’s
sneering remark echoed in her ears. All she could think was that her needlework
must have been coarse, and uneven, though she’d checked and checked. She had to
do better, though she wasn’t sure how. So when she heard someone step through
the trees into the godswood, she was momentarily angry. Couldn’t she be left
alone, to cry, to be unladylike for once in her life? She wiped her eyes, and
held tight to the low tree branch. A light rain had started to fall, and the
bark was slightly slippery.
Jon emerged from the leaves. He was prone to sulking, and
there was an anger and melancholy that never left him. But before her mother
made it clear she was to have nothing to do with Jon, when she was very little,
and scared of storms outside her window, Sansa would sometimes go to him at
night and ask to sleep in his bed. Robb would let her too, of course. He would chuckle,
and muss her hair, and tell her there was nothing to worry about before falling
back asleep. Sansa would still shake, though, each time the thunder boomed.
Robb was big and strong, her oldest brother. He wasn’t frightened by the
storm. But Sansa was small, so small it was hard for her to climb into Robb’s
bed. She couldn’t stop the fear that coursed through her each time the thunder
sounded as if it would swallow her up. Jon would tell her it was all right to
be scared. He would hold her, and talk to her, until the rain ceased. She could
still recall how warm he’d been, how he’d sing to her in a high, sweet voice if
she asked. Her lady mother forbade her from joining her half-brother in bed
when she turned six, and Sansa learned that the word “bastard” separated Jon
and Robb. Although Sansa dutifully turned her head away now when Jon walked by,
she remembered that he’d been gentle with her, when they were children.
Still, she was ashamed of her tears, and wasn’t sure she
wanted to share them. “Did you come to mock me too, Jon?” She heard the thread
of anger in her voice, but held her chin high. Jon stopped in front of her,
strangely quiet. It took her a moment to realize he was holding a mass of blue
flowers in his hand.
“No, Sansa. I – I came to see if you were all right.”
If he had been wheedling, or commanding, she would have
sent him packing. Instead he let the silence draw out between them, and Sansa
began to relax. Then, slowly, she began to talk, in fits and starts. “I wasn’t
– the gift, Jon, I made Joffrey a favor, I spent weeks on it, getting every
stitch right, though there’s no reason for you to know that–“
“I saw you,” Jon said. “You’d work on it day and night. You
brought it outside a few times, while we trained.”
“The sunlight, it’s best for certain techniques, I – you
noticed?” She thought Jon Snow would be the last person to pay attention to an
“You seemed…tense, while you did it. And you stuck your
tongue out.” The corner of his mouth quirked.
“I do that when I’m concentrating. Though I’d rather others
couldn’t tell.” She gathered her skirts in an effort to look dignified,
even when sitting in a tree. “Yes. Well. I’d hoped – I’d hoped the prince would
like it. I’m only a lady, Jon, not a princess, I have to show him I’m not
stupid, I’m worth marrying, worth bringing to King’s Landing, there are so many
others he could choose. I heard him, did you know that? I heard what he said,
when he dropped it. ‘Trust a dog not to know a lion’s likeness.’” She twisted
her damp hair around her finger. Jon listened to her, really listened as she
talked, it felt liked so few people did that anymore. “I did my best, Jon, I
asked Maester Luwin to show me pictures in the library, I stitched the lion as
fine as I could.”
He held the flowers out to her mutely. “Thank you Jon.”
Sansa was polite, but puzzled. “What is it?”
“It’s a crown,” Jon said. “Love and beauty.” She and Robb and Jon had played this game a
thousand times when they were younger, the Queen of Love and Beauty. Robb, her
bright-eyed brother with the easy laugh, had always won, and named her his
queen. Jon was the one before her now, serious and solemn. She bowed her head.
When he placed the crown on her hair, his touch was light. He told her she was
beautiful, and any prince would love her.
She drew strength from his gesture, enough to bring back
some of her good humor. “Should you swear fealty then?” Robb would have teased
her, and chucked her under the chin. She half-expected Jon to stammer out an
excuse, and leave the way he came. Instead Jon simply went down on one knee,
and took her hand. They were too old for this game, and perhaps that was the
reason for the flush on her cheeks. His curls were wet, and stuck to his forehead.
He brushed the back of her hand with his lips. “My queen.” Jon looked up at her with
dark eyes as if she already was a queen, as if there was no room for doubt.
She held onto that look, even after father’s lecture, even
after arriving in King’s Landing. She thought back on it when Joffrey’s men
struck her, when Littlefinger undressed her with his eyes.
After she bled, when she was to be wed to the man she knew
to be a monster, she picked at the blue roses she’d embroidered on her
gown. I’m already beautiful. Any prince would love me. Sansa
started to cry. Jon had spoken those words that day as if they were as
true and as plain as the rain that soaked her hair.
Promise me, Ned. Ned
knew he was terrifyingly close to failing Lyanna, when he saw Jon Targaryen
kneeling before his daughter in the godswood, as a crown of winter roses graced
her hair. Sansa’s gaze was rapt, and Jon looked at her like she was the sun and
stars together. No, he thought, Jon, stop, you can’t, a love like this once
broke the world apart. So he shattered the scene, sending Sansa running,
dragging Jon back to Winterfell’s halls. He’d forbid his daughter and his
nephew from spending time with each other. He’d send Jon to the Wall, and
escort Sansa safely to King’s Landing, before he’d let a love so strong and
dangerous bloom again.
Ship: Jon x Sansa, background Ned/Cat, Robb/Jeyne, Arya/Gendry
‘Why don’t you come with me?’
Jon squints at her, sure he’s misheard.
‘To Winterfell. Why don’t you come with me?
or; Sansa takes pity on Jon and invites him home for the holidays, but there’s one significant catch. 10k. Fake dating.On AO3 if you prefer.
AN: For jonxsansafanfictions winter challenge. The fic is still unfinished but I wanted to get something out before christmas day. Consider this part one of two.
Jon shoulders open the door to his small apartment and drops his keys into the bowl on the side, stamping the last flakes of snow sticking to his boots free onto his doormat. Outside the streets of Chicago are littered with fairy lights and big baubled christmas trees stand in the lobby of every department store in the city. The walls of Jon and Robb’s flat are bare in comparison, the only blinking light coming from the answering machine down the hall. Jon sighs and shifts his shopping to the kitchen before pressing play on the machine. Just as he expected, Lyanna Snow’s soft voice starts to spiral into the room.
‘Jon? Jon darling, are you there? Robb?… Jon if you’re in, please pick up the phone…. I guess you’re out.’ A sigh crackles down the line. ‘Jon, I just wanted to make sure you haven’t changed your mind. Your father and I would very much like to spend the holiday with you and I miss you, honey. Your father wants to see you. Please, Jon, just think about it. Give me a ring later? Ok, bye for now.’
#50 “I wish I could hate you.” #77 “You’re still mad?” #93 “I just need ten minutes.”
“I wish I could hate you.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jon. “I know.” Jon whispers, wanting to touch you by the shoulder, but he decides against it. “I’m sorry.” “It’s fine. Just…I just need ten minutes.” Understanding Jon nods and leaves your bedroom. A sharp pain shots through your body as you’re trying to move and you whimper. Immediately Jon storms back in your room, but you’re too weak to say something. “(Y/N), please let me help you.” He pleads and you nod in agreement. You played long enough the strong, independent woman who doesn’t need an overprotective man like Jon. But you can’t take it anymore. The pain, avoiding him… Carefully he puts the blanket away before he cleans your wound and patch you up. “Thank you.” You say with a small smile. “You-you’re still mad?” He asks and you shake your head, making him sigh relieved.
Uh. I don’t actually see the indignation. What I saw in the debate was that the guy interviewing him (don’t know him from Adam, but hey) kept interrupting him and putting words in his mouth, deliberately coming to the worst possible conclusion from what he was saying.
From what I recall from it, Jon seems to have basically been saying: there is such thing as an American culture. If people want to be citizens of the United States of America, then they must integrate into that culture, else the culture will not last. American culture is what has allowed America to be the go-to country for immigration, to have that opportunity of a better life. If people keep crossing the border illegally, or make zero effort to integrate themselves into American culture, then eventually that culture will change, and so will the opportunities created by it.
Statistically, white people tend to represent this culture the most. This is because many of the illegal immigrants to the States are not white – not simply because the culture is based on white people alone. (In large part, due to our country’s history? Yes. But not alone. I know for a fact that there are many ethnic-minority individuals who have been accused of being “too white” because they tend to follow widespread American culture.)
Of course, the easy thing to glean from this is “oh so you’re just afraid of other cultures, you’re just afraid that whites will be a minority.” Jon said none of that, and that’s an incorrect assumption. What he was saying was that AMERICANS are at risk of becoming a minority in their own country – by which he means, people that have put forth the effort to integrate themselves into American culture, bringing the positives of their own culture and working them into what’s already here INSTEAD of trying to stick 100% to the culture from where they left and not trying to become an American.
If you want to become a citizen of a country, there’s something in that country that you want to have access to. There’s nothing wrong with that. But you must first prove that you are willing to do what is required by the culture of that country in order to have access to that thing. You cannot simply reject pieces of that country’s culture you don’t want to make the effort to adjust to and still take advantage of what it offers that you like, while disrespecting the rest of it.
Sounds a bit like cultural appropriation, eh?
So, yeah. My stance on the current Jontron debacle: people are, once again, putting words in his mouth and, wilfully or not, COMPLETELY missing the real point of what he’s saying in favor of calling him out on “racism” that isn’t even there.
Now two things that all those Dany x Jon seem to forget:
Dany is barren!!!! So, if she marries her dear old nephew who is the only other character, that we know of, who has Targaryen blood. She will be putting an end to her own house. What’s the point of all this war and conquering if she has no heir???
Tyrion said that she needs to keep herself open for marriage to form political alliances. Tell me, what sort of political alliance combines the same house? She doesn’t even get the North because once the people find out who Jon really is I highly doubt they would still follow him. He is the son of the man who kidnapped their lady lyanna, the grandson of the mad king who brunt their lords Rickard and Brandon alive. The only reason they follow him now is because he is Ned’s “son”.
Now if Jon marries Sansa however, Dany will get lots of heirs and the support of not only the north but the riverlands and the vale as well. Fear not my fellow jonsa shippers WE ARE STILL IN THIS.