monkeysloot  asked:

Hello! Do you know who has the dagger which was used to try to kill Bran? Either in the books or the show.

I don’t know (or care) about the show, but in the books, Ned took the dagger from Catelyn when she came to King’s Landing, and Petyr Baelish claimed Tyrion had won it from him at Joffrey’s 12th birthday tourney. (Which was not true, it was Robert that had won it.) Littlefinger took the dagger back from Ned in the throne room coup scene:

As his men died around him, Littlefinger slid Ned’s dagger from its sheath and shoved it up under his chin. His smile was apologetic. “I did warn you not to trust me, you know.”

–AGOT, Eddard XIV

The last we saw of it, he was using it to cut fruit…

Petyr cut a pomegranate in two with his dagger, offering half to Sansa. “You should try and eat, my lady.”   
“Thank you, my lord.” Pomegranate seeds were so messy; Sansa chose a pear instead, and took a small delicate bite. 

…while teaching Sansa a certain lesson:

“Tell me, Alayne—which is more dangerous, the dagger brandished by an enemy, or the hidden one pressed to your back by someone you never even see?”
“The hidden dagger.”
“There’s a clever girl.” He smiled, his thin lips bright red from the pomegranate seeds. “When the Imp sent off her guards, the queen had Ser Lancel hire sellswords for her. Lancel found her the Kettleblacks, which delighted your little lord husband, since the lads were in his pay through his man Bronn.” He chuckled. “But it was me who told Oswell to get his sons to King’s Landing when I learned that Bronn was looking for swords. Three hidden daggers, Alayne, now perfectly placed.”
“So one of the Kettleblacks put the poison in Joff’s cup?” Ser Osmund had been near the king all night, she remembered.
“Did I say that?” Lord Petyr cut the blood orange in two with his dagger and offered half to Sansa. “The lads are far too treacherous to be part of any such scheme… and Osmund has become especially unreliable since he joined the Kingsguard. That white cloak does things to a man, I find. Even a man like him.” He tilted his chin back and squeezed the blood orange, so the juice ran down into his mouth. “I love the juice but I loathe the sticky fingers,” he complained, wiping his hands. “Clean hands, Sansa. Whatever you do, make certain your hands are clean.”

–ASOS, Sansa VI

The fact that the Valyrian steel dagger, one of GRRM’s biggest Chekhov’s guns (if fired already, but then hung back on the wall) appears in this highly metaphorical and foreshadowing-filled scene with Sansa… well. I think, I hope, I believe this dagger will play a certain part in Littlefinger’s downfall. And since it’s Valyrian steel, then likely Sansa will have the dagger for defense against the Others during the upcoming War for the Dawn. Hope that helps!

sansapotter  asked:

jon x sansa brown please :)

SOOO this kind of came out differently than I expected but I hope you like it!! And thank you for sending a prompt in <3 

+ colour au prompts + 


It’s a Monday morning when he stumbles into her coffee shop with a dark purpling bruise along his jawline and a white bandage covering the bridge of his nose. Sansa has seen a lot of strange people during the morning coffee rush – mostly disheveled and grumpy adults and occasionally the bleary-eyed student who hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours – but he’s certainly new. Sansa keeps him in her peripheral throughout the half hour he spends in her shop. She tries to tell herself it’s because he looks dodgy, but another part of her brain – the part that’s been single for over a year – traitorously tells her it’s because he’s got sinfully full lips.

She doesn’t expect to see him again after he drags himself back out into the world, but Thursday morning, he wanders back in. This time, the bruise is mottled with various shades of green and yellow. The bandage is gone from his nose but there’s a deep scabbed over gash across it. He still looks like shit, but better. Sansa is itching to ask him what happened when he comes up to the register and orders a large black coffee.

“Name?” she asks, pen poised over the coffee cup. He blinks back at her like he doesn’t understand her question and she has to refrain from laughing. “Your name. You do have one, don’t you?”

“Uh… my name,” he repeats slowly, but then his eyes widen in understanding. “Oh, it’s – uh, it’s Jon. Sorry,” he adds sheepishly, lifting his hand to rub at the back of his neck, but the action causes him to wince and he drops it by his side. Interesting, Sansa can’t help but note to herself.

She smiles softly, waves his apology off and writes Jon in her neatest cursive.

It’s really hard to get him out of her head. Sansa even dreams of curly black hair, deep grey eyes and those unfairly tantalising lips. Men who look like him should not have lips like that. It’s really cruel.

Jon is back again on Monday, and this time, his bottom lip is split and there’s ugly red bruising around his left eye. Add all of that with last week’s previous injuries and he looks utterly terrifying. People in the queue, who are normally so tired they can barely muster up the energy to trudge forward, give him a wide berth, like they’re afraid he might suddenly focus his fury on them. But he doesn’t look angry or violent. There’s a softness in his grey eyes and around the curve of his lips when he catches her eye and smiles. It makes Sansa refuse to believe it. She really shouldn’t be so quick to give a stranger the benefit of the doubt, especially not after sweet-talking Joffrey turned out to be such an arrogant, horrible wanker, but something about Jon is different.

When he reaches the register, Sansa gives him a slow once-over, which has him flushing from the neck to the tips of his ears. “How are you, Jon?” she asks, because she doesn’t know what else to say. She doesn’t want to tell him he looks like shit in case whatever’s happening is really bad nor does she want to outright ask him in case she’s wrong and he’s the bad thing that’s happening.

Jon looks surprised that she remembers his name and flushes even more. “I’m okay. Um, tired. How are you…” He squints at her nametag, which is a bit mangled from her accidentally throwing it in the washing machine a couple months earlier. “Sorsa?”

Surprising herself, she giggles at his poor attempt. “It’s Sansa. But close. Large black?”

He nods with a small smile.

When Jon shows up the following Monday with even more injuries, Sansa decides she needs to do something subtle because she’s positive he’s not the type of guy to get into bar brawls on the weekends for the hell of it. If he fights someone, there has to be a good, honourable reason for it. But in a distant part of her brain, she can hear her older brother chiding her for being so trusting of a man she barely knows, except Sansa does know him. After last Monday, he came in every day of that week, sometimes in the mornings and sometimes in the afternoons, but he would always spend time just talking to her. He’s courteous and sweet, a little bit awkward and kind of horrible with women, but it’s endearing rather than annoying. There’s no way someone like Jon could ever be the instigator of a fight unless provoked.

Jon returns again the next afternoon sporting his new injury – a slight limp – and Sansa asks Jeyne to cover for her as she grabs him by the forearm and drags him into the staff room. She sits him down and starts speaking without preamble.

“I need to know if I should be worried about you or if I should be worried about me.” When he only blinks back at her dumbly, Sansa sighs in frustration. “Jon, I know you don’t really know me very well but if something bad is happening, I can… I don’t know. I can help you.”

He inclines his head as if to study her, a mixture of bemusement and fondness on his face, and it kind of unsettles Sansa because she doesn’t really know how to handle that. No one’s ever looked at her like that before, not even Joffrey, and it’s hard to process that it’s coming from this virtual stranger.

“You’re worried about me?” Jon questions, but when she answers his question with a scowl, he chuckles softly. “Sorry. I guess I look a bit worrying, don’t I?”

“You could say that,” she deadpans, eyes roving over his injuries pointedly.

Jon laughs. “Okay, so this is going to be really anticlimactic for you but I’m apart of an amateur fighting ring.”

Oh.

“That was definitely not on my list.”

“What list?” he asks, smiling more broadly now, the amusement even more pronounced in those grey eyes.

Sansa huffs. “I might’ve made a list of all the possible reasons why you could be getting so frequently injured.”

Jon laughs and the sound is bright and warm, which has the effect of making Sansa smile in return in spite of the reddening of her cheeks and her sudden need to run away. She instead opts for a subject change. “So you’re in a fight club?”

“No,” he responds instantly, rolling his eyes slightly. “A fight club is just some asinine way for emotionally repressed guys to get their rocks off.”

Sansa can’t help the smirk unfurling on her lips because this is clearly a sore subject for him. “Okay, so what’s the difference?”

“I’m sponsored by a bar and I fight on the weekends for some extra cash,” Jon answers her. “It’s – yeah, it’s not ideal and you’re not the first person to come to me about it, but my mum died when I was seventeen and I needed the money.”

“Wait, you’ve been doing this since you were seventeen? Is that – that doesn’t sound legal, Jon!”

He shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. “So maybe I fibbed a bit about my age. I’m twenty-two now and I’ve only got a semester left of my degree so it’ll be over soon.”

She frowns slightly and reaches over to touch his hand. “That’s terrible. This shouldn’t be something you have to do just to afford university.”

“It’s okay, Sansa,” Jon says, curling his hand over hers. “I’m pretty good.” He cracks a half-smile. “You should see the other guys.”

She’s about to tell him off for the really poor joke when Jeyne pokes her head through the door. “Hate to break up the socially inept flirting you two do but Sans, I need you back out there. I’m dying.”

Both Sansa and Jon flush from head to toe. He’s the first to reach the door after Jeyne disappears and Sansa is right behind him. But before she can slip through, Jon puts his hand out to block her in. “Um, you should – if you want that is, come see me this weekend?”

Sansa scrunches up her nose in distaste. “I don’t know if I want to see you get beaten up, Jon.”

His face falls for a moment and he removes his hand from the door frame. “Yeah, of course. That’s… That’s normal.” He gives her a faint smile and leaves her standing there for a few more seconds before she’s racing up to catch up to him.

“But I’ll go,” she quickly assures him. “Only the once, okay? I need to make sure you’re telling the truth after all.”

Jon beams back at her and she considers going to every single match he has just to make him this happy – which she realises is an absurd thing to want for a man she hardly knows.

“Great. I’ll text you the details!”

And that’s how Jeyne and her find themselves standing in a smelly gym with loud, intimidating looking men and women, who are shouting and laughing boisterously. The stench of alcohol is everywhere and Sansa links her arm through Jeyne’s just to feel safer. “This is a bad idea,” she whispers. “This is a really bad idea. I don’t even know him.”

She can’t really see her as her eyes are focused on the people around them but she hears the exasperation in Jeyne’s voice and she can guess that her best friend is rolling her eyes. “Uhuh, but pining after him and worrying about him is also a really bad idea.”

“I wasn’t –”

“Yeah, okay, Sans,” Jeyne chuckles a bit sardonically. “You two were practically just making heart eyes at each other over the counter for three weeks straight. Please don’t insult my above average intelligence.”

Sansa snorts and bumps her hip against Jeyne’s. “Your ego is unbecoming.”

“Piss off.”

The familiar bickering allows Sansa to forget for awhile where she is and why she’s actually here, but abruptly, a tinny voice cuts across the conversation, announcing the match will start in ten minutes. Sansa grips Jeyne even tighter as they near the front, staring at the weird metallic cage built around the boxing ring.

“Uh, that’s not normal, is it?”

“I thought you said he was a boxer.”

“He said he was a fighter but… cage fighting?”

A burly man beside her whose copper hair could give hers a run for its money laughs loudly. “It’s MMA fighting, ladies.”

“What is that?” Jeyne says with a mixture of apprehension and annoyance.

“Mixed martial arts,” he answers, still smiling in amusement, but then his smile changes and she thinks he’s trying to look charming. “So if you don’t know what this is, what are two lovely girls such as yourselves doing here?”

“Hey mate, back off,” Jeyne says with a scowl. “I’m taken.” She isn’t. “And this one here’s future baby daddy is one of those MMA fighters.”

The man stares squarely at Sansa with such focus it really begins to unnerve her, but then just like before, he bursts out into a booming laugh. “Does that mean you’re Jon’s little coffee shop girl?”

“I wouldn’t call myself little,” she says, bristling; although she realises a little belatedly that she doesn’t correct the man on his mistake that she’s somehow involved with Jon.

“My apologies,” he says, but he doesn’t sound apologetic at all. “I’m Tormund,” he continues, thrusting out a hand for her to shake, which she does with some wariness. “I’m his trainer. That prick hasn’t stopped talking about you for weeks now. Bloody pathetic, honestly, but I can see why.”

“Oh my god, right?” Jeyne exclaims, suddenly forgetting her previous irritation with this man. “She’s been the same way! You’re lucky though. You haven’t had to watch them flirt. It’s like watching a cat trying to swim.”

Tormund laughs again but her glare cuts him off quite quickly.

“Both of you shut it or I swear –”

Her threat is rudely interrupted when the tinny voice returns, announcing the arrival of the two contenders. There’s a sudden increase in jeers and shouts. It’s a lot to take in, and a part of her wonders what on earth she’s doing here. Sansa is a good girl. She works at a coffee shop so her parents don’t have to pay for her accommodation and living costs. She’s in her final year of Primary Education because she adores children. Her last two boyfriends were straight-laced boys from well-to-do families. She doesn’t do things like this.

But a small voice reminds her that both her exes also cheated on her so maybe straight-laced and well-to-do shouldn’t be categories she bases her next boyfriend on. Maybe a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, who fights in a cage to put himself through school, is exactly what she should be looking for.

Pushing down the nerves fluttering in her stomach, Sansa cranes her neck to watch as Jon is escorted into the ring. His upper torso is bare and it makes her mouth go dry. She’s only ever seen him in hoodies. She knew he must have had a nice body considering how well his broad shoulders strained against his clothes, but to see it on display in front of her is quite frankly exhilarating in a way she’d never tell Jeyne about.

“Is your boy going to win?” Jeyne asks Tormund with a sceptical raise of her brow, voicing the question that’s been bouncing around in Sansa’s head all week. “Because that other dude looks like he could lift a car without breaking a sweat.”

She turns her head to catch sight of Jon’s opponent and her mouth gapes at the sheer size of him. Oh god, he’s going to die, she instantly thinks, and a sudden wave of panic and nausea sweeps through her body.

“Don’t be so quick to judge. He may look big but they are in the same weight class for a reason,” Tormund answers, smirking. This is basically gibberish to her because she doesn’t know what a weight class is, but when he adds, “Jon’s got moves,” Sansa is determined to believe him.

Twenty minutes into the fight and Jon’s moves have gotten him knocked square in the face and another one in the stomach. He’s bleeding from his forehead, but his eyes are focused. It’s surreal to see this side of him. She may have only known him for a couple of weeks, but the Jon she met is sweet, shy and endearingly awkward. This Jon is anything but awkward. His movements are precise, lithe and calculated. Where the other man has size and power, Jon has speed and brains. He doesn’t just aim his punches anywhere. He knows exactly where he wants to hit, delivers it at the most opportune moment and capitalises quickly at the moment of contact. It’s the most riveting thing Sansa’s ever watched – and she’s been to the West End multiple times.

“Your husband is amazing,” her friend whispers, awe in her voice.

Sansa rolls her eyes, even though there’s a small proud smile on her lips. “He’s not my husband. But yeah, yeah he’s great.”

Jeyne snorts, and thankfully, doesn’t say anything else, leaving her to watch the fight without interruption.

They’re nearing the end of the last round, which, Tormund explains, means that the judges will decide on the winner. She doesn’t know how that works either because how can anyone tell who’s winning at this point? They both seem fairly matched; although Sansa completely thinks Jon is the better fighter. He’s graceful and makes it look like a real sport, whereas the other man makes it look like a bar brawl.

Suddenly, Jon spins and delivers a kick to the man’s head, knocking him backwards onto the ground, where he swiftly begins to drive forward with punch after punch. The referee finally has to pull Jon away from the man, and then everyone’s screaming and trying to push forward.

“Wait, what just happened!” Sansa yells to Tormund, who is one of those people trying to get forward.

He looks back at Sansa, eyes taking her in as if for the first time and then his hand is around her wrist, pulling her with him. “Your boyfriend just won, Coffee Shop Girl. You should go say hi.”

Sansa doesn’t get a chance to protest or even process what’s happening until Tormund is shouting to someone and she’s being dragged up onto the stage. Jon is getting cleaned up, but when he catches sight of her, he instantly jumps to his feet and sways rather violently from the sudden movement. Sansa races forward to catch him.

“Don’t move,” she chides, frowning at his goofy grin. “Are you concussed? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jon steps back from her grasps with that strange smile still on his face. “You actually came.”

“I told you I would,” she says, rolling her eyes, but her heart is beating a mile a minute. She doesn’t even know how someone could have this much of an effect on her. “Seriously, Jon, are you okay?”

“And you’re worried about me,” he continues on, his smile growing wider and wider.

“Of course I’m worried! I saw you get punched in the head!” she half-shouts at him because now she’s a little frustrated and he’s being really, really irritating.

That wipes the smile instantly from his face as his hands go to her shoulders. “Sansa, I am fine, you know? This isn’t really the worst that’s ever happened to me in the ring. I’m okay.”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs. “You don’t look okay.” She gestures to his forehead where the blood’s dried.

The smile he offers her now is more hesitant and shy and it reminds her of the Jon she knows from the coffee shop. “I’m sorry. I’m just really glad you came. I know you didn’t want to and this is probably not your scene but… it means a lot to me.”

“It’s not,” Sansa agrees, smiling. “But you were amazing tonight.”

“Thanks,” he says, cheeks flushed.

“But Jon?” she presses on, swallowing the fear lodged inside her throat. “This is the last time I’m coming to one of these.” His face falls and she can’t help laughing softly. “Next time, just ask me out on a normal date, okay? Less bloody.”

The relief on his face makes her heart swell with so much warmth and affection for this man.

“Okay, next time, a normal date. I promise.”

Sansa’s cheeks are aching from smiling so much, but she doesn’t care. This, right here with Jon, is perfect. Even with the crowd still screaming behind them; even with Jon bloodied and bruised and sweaty. Nothing matters but the fact that Jon is the first man to ever make her feel like she’s the only thing of actual importance in his world. It might not be true, but it feels true.

“What?” Jon asks, chuckling. “You’re the one staring at me this time.”

Instead of answering, Sansa throws her arms around his neck and presses her lips firmly against his. He easily reciprocates by matching her movements and sliding his hands around her waist, gripping tight to her hips. When she scrapes her teeth against his lower lip, she feels him groan into her mouth, tugging her tightly until every part of her body is pressed into his. Sansa doesn’t quite know how long they stand there, but they both instantly jump apart as someone clears their throat pointedly at them.

“As happy as I am that you two figured things out,” Jeyne begins. “Your husband’s trainer keeps hitting on me and if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to kill him and I don’t think Jon would want that.”

He stares at her best friend for a long moment. “Husband?”

“Ugh,” Sansa groans. “Don’t encourage her.”