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2023-04-19
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resuscitation (breathe me back to life)

Summary:

A fire grips her heart, takes root and starts to burn.

“Where does it end?”

Sansa’s question takes Jon off guard. He looks up at her, his eyes wide. He doesn't quite understand.

“Where does her tyranny end?” she clarifies, “When Cersei’s dead? When she sits the Iron Throne? When you’re married to her?”

Jon flinches.

 

--

Or;

An alternate direction for Jon and Sansa in 8x04.

Notes:

Takes place after Sansa and Arya find out the truth of Jon's parentage in 8x04.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

resuscitation (breathe me back to life)

“Then I’m not your concern anymore, Jon.”

Sansa turns on her heel as her heart lodges itself in her throat. She chokes on the words that threaten to cleave her in two. She has been arguing with Jon for the better part of an hour since Bran told them the truth. Arya and their brother retreated to Winterfell soon afterward, leaving her with Jon. She couldn’t blame them. 

But she can’t do it anymore, she can’t play the fool in Jon’s life—she won’t. 

Tears well in her eyes as she storms from the Godswood. She never learns. She had thought—it doesn’t matter what she thought, a girlish dream. Bran’s words should have come as a relief, and they would have six moons ago. Now they turn to ashes in her mouth. 

A jolt to her forearm stops her quick exit. She closes her eyes as Jon’s hand circles around her wrist and she’s forced to turn back around. When she opens them again Jon is watching her, and there is no other word to describe his expression. He’s devastated. 

“Sansa,” he says to the ground, “you are my only concern.”

His eyes find hers and their gaze locks. She loses herself for just slightly too long in the gray of his eyes. 

She blinks back her tears. 

“You. And Bran, and Arya. The North. Sansa, please.”

She bites the inside of her cheek, tries to control her expression but she knows it’s no use. She was never able to keep her walls up around Jon before he went to Dragonstone, and it’s only gotten worse since he returned. She’s unravelling and there’s nothing she can do about it.

She let him do that, let him worm his way inside her heart. 

Stupid girl, she never learns. 

She should pull away, tell him to never presume such familiarity with her again. She should tear off to the castle and barricade herself in her rooms until he leaves for King’s Landing tomorrow. She shouldn’t give him one more chance. 

But the fear in his eyes is undeniable now, and it’s that over everything that stays her hand and gives her pause. 

Her anger doesn’t wilt. It burns, cold then hot.

“Robb died,” she chokes out, “My mother died. Rickon died. For the North’s independence. And you gave it away like it meant nothing. How can you stand there and say you care about the North?”

The rest of her question is left unsaid: How can you say you care about me? 

Jon loosens his grip on her wrist but he doesn’t step away. His eyes dart from side to side and then he glances over his shoulder—checking that they’re alone. When he speaks his voice is even quieter than before. 

“She threatened you,” he murmurs, “not in so many words. But she made it clear what would happen if I didn’t make you obey her.”

His voice is hollow, emotionless. 

Defeated.

Sansa’s blood runs cold. She can’t say she’s surprised. But hearing it said so bluntly takes her aback. She’s had a price on her head since the moment she left King’s Landing. She knows Cersei will never rest until Sansa is dead. This is different. This is a woman they invited into their home. 

This is a woman who told Sansa she loves Jon.

“Do you see now?” Jon sighs, “Do you finally understand? Nobody can know, ever. She begged me not to tell you, she–”

Jon breaks off and looks at the ground. Sansa looks over his shoulder at the weirwood behind him. 

She blinks and she sees her father. 

The memory is so vivid she feels she could step right into it and let it surround her until the end of her days. She is sitting on his knee. Robb and Jon are sitting on the ground beside him. Just the three of them. Sansa is only a few years old. Robb and Jon are a couple older. Arya must only be a babe, back at the castle with her mother. Bran and Rickon are yet to be born. 

Her father is pointing at the tree, teaching them even then about the Old Gods, telling them stories. The joy in his eyes is absolute, it’s intoxicating to her. She wants to trace the lines around his mouth from his smile, she wants to run to him and throw herself into his arms. But she doesn’t, she knows it’s not real. But even so, if she strains she can almost hear his voice. 

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. 

She blinks and the vision dissolves. 

A fire grips her heart, takes root and starts to burn. 

“Where does it end?”

Sansa’s question takes Jon off guard. He looks up at her, his eyes wide. He doesn't quite understand. 

“Where does her tyranny end?” she clarifies, “When Cersei’s dead? When she sits the Iron Throne? When you’re married to her?”

Jon flinches. 

“Or is it when she decides that everyone who knows the truth is a threat? When Sam and Bran turn up dead for uncovering the truth? When she decides Arya and I can no longer be trusted?”

Jon’s expression twists in horror, a protest forms on his lips but Sansa takes a half step toward him, erasing the last of the space between them.

“When you’re the only one left in the world who knows and you have no one to turn to but her, no choice but unwavering loyalty?”

Jon swallows, they’re close enough now that she can feel his breath mingle with hers. 

“Is that the future you want?” Sansa reaches for him. 

Before her hand touches his cheek she drops it—thinking better of the action. Jon’s eyes track the movement all the way down. When he looks back up at her Sansa breaks.

“Let me protect you.”

Jon blinks at her, his eyes disbelieving what his ears have heard. If he speaks true, Jon has been protecting them all along, keeping his promise to make sure she is safe. 

It’s time for her to repay the debt. 

“How?”

Jon’s voice is hoarse as he finally lets Sansa back in. She could cry with relief as Jon’s whole body seems to sag under the burden he’s been carrying. This time when she reaches toward him she doesn’t falter. She cups his chin delicately and tips his face towards hers so he can’t look away. 

“We tell the truth,” Sansa breathes, “Your claim is better than hers.”

Jon bristles—beneath her touch she can feel his pulse race. Several long breaths pass between them before Sansa’s fingers fall away from where they grip Jon’s face. When they do, Jon speaks. 

“She still has two dragons.”

Sansa nods. It’s an inconvenience. 

“Rhaegal…” she trails off. 

His eyes flash. 

“No.”

Sansa presses. 

“He’s loyal to you, after the battle.”

Jon is shaking his head. 

“She’ll burn us alive.”

“We have more men than her. The Dothraki are all but obliterated after the Long Night. The Unsullied are half what they once were, if that.” 

She can tell Jon is considering it. She can see his mind processing her words. But then he shakes his head again and turns from her, receding towards the Godswood. 

“You don’t know what it was like,” he mutters, “on Dragonstone.”

Sansa follows after him. 

“You never told me.”

They’re in front of the tree now, gazing up at its red leaves. 

He doesn’t meet her eye when he speaks again. He stares at the face embedded in the bark. She wonders if he’s remembering their father now too. 

(Or is he telling himself Ned Stark is no father of his anymore? How many ways does Jon hurt himself that she never even hears about? How can she help him when he won’t let her?)

“I never should’ve gone down there,” he rubs his forehead,“Even if what Arya said is true, even if I was right and we needed the dragons…I should have sent an envoy. I should have sent you.”

At this, Sansa startles. Jon notices her reaction because he starts to backtrack.

“I only mean, you would have known how to convince her, you would have known how to influence her to come North without mad schemes of capturing a wight and bending the bloody knee.”

It shouldn’t affect her the way it does, and yet she preens under the praise, the knowledge that after everything he still trusts her. It’s when his words truly sink in that her heart speeds up. It’s more than he’s admitted in all the weeks since his return. Words she never dreamed of hearing.

Who manipulated whom? 

Isn’t that what Daenerys asked her? 

“Jon.”

He turns towards her and his face is no less devastating. She thinks the only time she’s seen him smile since he came back was the night after they defeated the Night King, laughing in the great hall with her and Tormund. 

This time she reaches for him and finds his hand. She squeezes it tight. She recalls suddenly the first time she did this, across a worn out table at Castle Black, pleading with him to fight for the North. 

Somehow, this feels much harder.

“Do you love her?”

She doesn’t breathe, she stands perfectly still, her hand linked with Jon’s. She asked him this before, when he first arrived. And he didn’t answer then, their impasse ended with Sansa fleeing the room, dissatisfied and heart bleeding. 

(She is done with turning away, done with hiding from what she feels.)

Neither of them look away. She waits for an answer that seems as if it will never come. And just when she is going to give up, she feels it. Miraculously, she feels Jon’s hand tighten around her own. 

“How could I?” he laughs. 

The laugh is bitter and cold, biting in the winter air. And it dies when Jon closes his mouth to swallow back tears. 

Sansa’s heart pounds so loudly she can scarcely hear anything else. 

It’s the only confirmation she needs. The honesty in Jon’s eyes is reminiscent of when he stood in the halls of their family and told her the North was hers, to hold it for him until he returned. And held it she had, she still does. She always will. 

It’s time for them to hold it together once again.

Jon wets his lip as his eyes dart down towards her mouth. Sansa surges forward, her hand still in Jon’s. 

Their lips meet and Sansa collapses into him. 

There is no resistance—just the hot press of Jon’s lip on hers as his free hand finds the small of her back and pulls her closer. She has never been kissed like this, never by someone she wanted to kiss, never with such care. 

Jon cradles her face, letting their intertwined hands drop, and he is so gentle—so tender, that she could weep. Hot tears sting her face as the kiss turns salty. But Sansa presses closer still, nearly clawing her way into Jon’s space, as if she tries hard enough she can meld them together, one heartbeat becoming two. Her chest heaves with emotion as she tries to catch her breath. Finally she pulls back, Jon’s hand still braces her to his chest. 

Moons and moons this guilt has swirled in her gut with nowhere to go. She has guarded it from everyone—Littlefinger, her siblings, Brienne, even Jon himself. The only person she was unable to hide it from was Daenerys herself. She could almost laugh. 

She’s scared to open her eyes, scared of what comes next. But Jon doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t push her from him in disgust. If anything he holds her a little closer. Jon kissed her back, all the fighting was for naught. 

He felt it too.

She rests her forehead against his.

“Sansa,” he breathes. 

The tears are still hot on her face. 

She opens her eyes and Jon’s watching her. She pulls back just enough to see him clearly. She can read the anguish on his face clearly enough, desire warring with shame. She wants to stomp on it—shame has no place here, not when she has never felt safer than right now, held in his arms. 

“I won’t let her hurt you,” Sansa promises. 

She can tell he’s about to protest so she presses a finger to his lips. The gesture is as surprising to him as it is to her. A noise approximating a laugh escapes her as she bites her lip. 

“We’ll figure this out Jon,” she continues, “Daenerys. Cersei. The Dragons. The truth of your birth. All of it.”

She can see just how badly he wants to believe her, how much he wants to give in. But Jon has never taken anything for himself, he’s never given in to selfishness. Everything he’s ever done has been out of duty, out of honour. 

She wants to tell him he can’t take what’s freely given, that Sansa will give him all of herself if he lets her. 

(In fact, she already has.)

Finally, he nods. 

“Together.”

Sansa lets out a long sigh. She lets herself lean forward, resting her head on Jon’s shoulder as he traces a small circle on her back. They’ve never been in more danger, they’ve never tread quite so close to the edge, and yet Sansa has never felt more at ease, more sure of their success. Her lips still tingle with the remnants of Jon’s kiss. 

The warmth of his embrace spreads through her, flooding her body all the way to its bones and stoking the fire that burns deep within her.

Winter is not over yet.

It’s time for the Dragon Queen to feel the warmth of wolves.

Notes:

sometimes you just have to write canon divergence jonsa scenes? idk what this even is or if i like it tbh, but it was just sitting here waiting to be posted so I hope you enjoyed it :)