the eryie

anonymous asked:

Prompt: Jon Snow starts a war for Sansa because that's what the Targaryens do for the Stark girls; the only condition is that we have a lot of romance and a happy ending, the rest is up to you.

He’s called away to fight The Others when Sansa is half-asleep in her room. It’s lonely, lonely like always when Jon is gone and there’s no one to keep her company. She sits buried under the furs, smelling his scent on the pillows and in the linen. If she closes her eyes and concentrates hard enough, Jon is there. If she really thinks hard, he’s definitely there, holding her, mumbling how she’s his sweet girl, the love of his life, that everything will be okay. He’s telling her he’s fought them before and he’ll fight them again, and they’ll win. Sansa can hear his chuckle as he says he was made for cold and there is no king in the north but him.

But Sansa is terrible at concentration so she lies awake, with her eyes open as she looks at the fire. She feels so awful she could almost cry for how terribly does she wish peace would come and her Jon would ride back to Winterfell, victorious and never leave. She hears a small crack in the corner of her chamber, but when she turns to look, there’s nothing there. Just darkness. Sansa’s not afraid; this is an old castle. It creaks and howls with the wind. This is her home and no one could frighten her here.

She settles back down against the soft linen, closing her eyes and counting backward from 100 to bring on sleep. Sansa could call for some milk of the poppy, but that seems extreme. Sleep will find her soon enough. But just as she’s sure she’ll finally felt Jon enter their chambers and climb beneath her sheets, there’s a hand around her throat and something over her head. If it was dark before, it’s pitch black now. Sansa can’t see anything and the hand around her neck is getting tighter and tighter.

She tries to scream, but nothing will come out. Whoever is in her room is so much stronger; they barely need hold her with one hand to stop her from moving. “He said take her, not kill her,” a man says.

Sansa gasps for air as her windpipe opens back up but the material over her eyes still blocks her sight. “The maester and guards are distracted for at least ten minutes. Grab her and lets go. Now.”

Sansa’s hauled off like some kind of dead swine; her heart pounding in her ears and silent tears leaking from her eyes. They carelessly throw her into a cart, like she’s worthless goods to be transported across Westeros. The last thing Sansa can think before she blacks out is that these must be Littlefinger’s men. And she isn’t wrong; she rarely ever is. She is taken to The Eryie, dropped off just past the Bloody Gate to be escorted to the castle by more men. She hears Baelish before she sees him, bile rising in her throat and tears stinging her cheeks.

“My love,” he coos, “I trust you are not so hurt.” He lifts the mask from her face and Sansa spits.

“You always were so fiery, Sansa. Just like your mother.”

“And like my mother, I will always choose someone else. Jon will find out what you’ve done and he will come for you.”

“Let him, sweetheart. I look forward to the day Jon must fight The Vale army.”

Sansa purses her lips to spit again but someone catches her cheek. “You don’t want to do that, sweet Sansa. How very unladylike. If you’re to act like an animal, we’ll treat you like one.” With a flick of his fingers, Sansa finds herself dragged down the stairs and into a locked bedroom she knew all too well in a not-so-distant memory.


Littlefinger never touches her, thank the gods, just makes her play house like she’s some kind of common wife instead of Queen of the North. She’s lost her faith but prays for the day Jon rides south to rescue her.

Jon’s never felt such fury in his entire life than when he gets word that Sansa has been kidnapped by Knights of the Vale, under order of Littlefinger. Jon’s not a particularly violent man, but he decides in this moment he’d wage war on all the seven kingdoms to get her back. He’d run his sword through every man between north of The Wall and the Eyrie just to see her return home to him.

“I’ll kill them all,” he says to Tormund, “I’ll kill everyone who has harmed a single hair on her head. Who has even touched a single hair on her head.”

“We will get her back,” his friend replies, “For you.”

Jon manages a smile before he rushes to Daenerys’ tent. “Your Grace, I’ve just received word that my wife has been taken captive.”

The queen raises her eyebrows. “Taken, you’re sure of it?”

“No doubt.”

Daenerys cocks and an eyebrow and frowns. “By whom?”

“Lord Baelish; he’s the only one who would’ve had motive to.”

“I’ve not liked him from the very first day of my reign. The battle here is finished, Jon. Round up the best men and ride south. Show him what happens to those who dare cross our rule.”

It’s the middle of the night when they arrive at the Bloody Gate, Jon and his troops cloaked in darkness with the benefit of surprise. There are extra guards, of course, Baelish isn’t stupid enough to hold the beloved Queen of the North hostage without extra protection.

“Your king has arrived,” Baelish tells Sansa, “How this mirrors your lovely aunt’s story. But just like Rhaegar, Jon will die. He’ll never make it to you in time. He’ll never make it past the castle walls.”

“You have always underestimated Jon. You said the north would never back a bastard born in the south, you doubted if he was fit to rule. He will make it past these walls, but you will not, Lord Baelish.”

With that, Littlefinger locks her door and Sansa prays for Jon. It’s hours before she hears the castle doors fly open and her heart beats in her ears as she fears the worst. What if Jon isn’t the one outside her door? What if it’s Baelish’s men to kill her instead of holding her hostage? If Jon fails, the Queen would come. And Sansa’s sure Littlefinger would rather her be dead than to fight the Dragon Queen over her body.

But then the door busts opens and it is Jon, the love of her life, covered in dirt and grime, with wild eyes that say he hasn’t slept in days. If Sansa’s honest, he looks like a Wildling and she wants to bathe every bit of dirt off his sweet face but that can wait. Instead she rushes to him, her knees shaking and jumping at the awful sound his sword makes as it clatters to the ground.

Jon takes her in his arms faster than she can blink, sweeping her off her feet and hugging her until she feels like her ribs might break. “Are you alright? Has he harmed you? If he touched a single hair upon your head…”

“No, I’m alright, Jon. His men were less than careful but it was nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Seven hells, Sansa,” Jon groans, peppering her face with kisses and checking her over for bruises and scrapes. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

“Yes, Jon, I’m sure.”

Sansa kisses him with all the effort she can muster, holding him close and clutching his cloak. “You’ll never leave my side again, Sansa. I promise you that.”

Sansa hums in response, “What of Baelish? Does he live?”

“He escaped just as we broke down the doors. My men are looking for him; he won’t make it far.”

“I believe you. Now take me home,” Sansa commands, letting Jon carry her to his horse.

They stop at an inn half way to Winterfell, where Sansa lies sleepily on a hastily made bed. “Baelish was right about one thing,” she says, undoing her long braid.

Jon looks at her like she’s lost her mind. “About what?”

“What Targaryen men do for Stark women.”

Jon finds himself laughing. “I’d do anything for you, Sansa. You know that. I’d search every corner of the world for you.” He kisses her palm, pushing her gently back on the mattress.

“I know you would,” Sansa replies sleepily, clutching both of his hands in hers. “The only time I am ever afraid is when you’re not around.”

Jon places a sweet kiss on her lips, pulling the furs up to her chin. “You are safe now, sweet girl. Sleep.”

And she does - she doesn’t have to imagine Jon’s smell on the pillows or his fingers in her hair, because he is there, at her side, just as he always will be.