In The Works

Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire - Jaime/Sansa

A Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire Fanfiction

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Summary

tbw

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As you may be able to tell, I've been a little hooked on Jaime recently....especially in anticipation of Jaime reaching Winterfell in the final season of GoT. And on top of reawakening my interest in the idea of a Jaime/Dany pairing, it's reawoken my interest in the idea of a Sansa/Jaime one as well. Especially the idea of the 'Sansa married to Jaime instead of Tyrion' trope. So naturally, my brain decided to come up with its own take.

How will it be different? It won't go that wildly AU as most stories using that trope seem too (which is usually awesome, but I digress). Instead, it'll mostly follow canon trajectories....with a couple key differences. 

Like Sansa being married to Jaime instead of Tyrion and, on the road to the Vale, discovering she's newly pregnant with Jaime's baby. Oh, and Shae going with her instead of being pulled into Tyrion's trial.

And considering all the awesomeness that is Jaime going North in the Season 7 finale and his arrival in Season 8?

Yeah, it's going to be fun. 

May be a short fic. May be a long one. No idea just yet. We're still mulling over details. It will probably start during approx. Season 7 or 8 instead of all the way back at their wedding though, with the potential for call backs or maybe even full-fledged flashbacks. I haven't decided yet. We'll see.

Stay tuned!

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Prologue

Sansa had long since learned to keep her features smooth and unaffected by whatever chaotic emotions were tearing her apart inside.

King's Landing had seen to that. Queen Cersei and her monster of a son had seen to that. Everything she'd lost had seen to it. Having her dreams and her childhood shattered and ground into the shit-lined streets of that horrible city had made sure of it.

The Eyrie too had seen to it. Her Aunt's attempt on her life and Lord Baelish's lessons and attentions had tempered her control. Had tempered her resolve.

She could appear as cool as the winter snow and as keen as the ice her house's Valyrian blade had once been named for.

Even if inside she still felt like little more than a quivering, terrified little girl.

She drew in a long, controlled breath, letting the frigid air eddying along the battlements of her ancestral home cut deep into her lungs, bracing her, grounding her.

Winterfell was hers, she reminded herself. She was home and her home was hers.

The cancer that was the Boltons had been ruthlessly and completely cut out.

She was the Lady of Winterfell, now.

She was...free. Free to do as she willed, now. And no one could tell her otherwise. Not Lord Baelish, not even Jon, King in the North though he'd been declared. No one.

She answered to herself, now.

It helped.

Tully-blue eyes scanned the expanse before the walls of Winterfell. It hadn't been all that long before that the pristine blanket of white that encircled the ancient castle had been marred and torn by blood and mud and death, churned into an ugly quagmire of trampled earth, spoiled slush and the mutilated bodies of men and horses. But even if the evidence of the bloody, desperate battle hadn't been cleared away, the winter snows would've long since covered it the way it had covered the rents and gouges in the ground that couldn't be cleared the way bodies and broken shields could be.

Even the evidence of Jon's departure for Dragonstone and Bran's unexpected arrival had been erased by the heavy winter snows, closing off Winterfell from the rest of the world in appearance if not entirely in truth.

It echoed the façade she was endeavoring to maintain despite her inner turmoil. Apart. Separate. Untouched.

She drew in another breath and let it free, her exhale freezing in a shimmering, cloudy mist for a heartbeat before her face before the biting wind whisked it away.

Only to stiffen as, between one blink and the next, a dark shape came into view on the road that broke the forbidding expanse of cold and white that guarded her home. She forced herself to stand her ground. People and wagons had been trickling in and out of the castle for weeks, now that there was a Stark back in Winterfell and a King in the North again. Winter was coming and there was a great deal to do. She knew better than to get her hopes up.

Until the dark shape resolved itself into the recognizable forms of a cart drawn by a sturdy northern horse and scattering of warmly bundled figures that walked along with it. Until it came close enough to see the smaller figure huddled next to the cart's driver.

Her breath caught and her pulse thundered in her ears.

And she just knew.

Before the thought had even entered into her head, she was walking briskly along the battlements to the castle and all but flying down the stairs to the entrance courtyard as quickly as her carefully fashioned composure allowed.

She paid little heed to the others milling about, passing her in the corridor or stepping out of her way as she stepped briskly back out into the cold. She glimpsed the trace of a curious, displeased frown pinching Lord Baelish's brow even as he watched her enter the courtyard with his usual mild, intrigued smirk fixed on his narrow features.

In that moment she could care less.

She was the Lady of Winterfell by blood, her rightful claim enforced by Jon's decree. He was free to disapprove all he liked. She was not the stupid little girl she had been.

She cared only for the figures one of Vale men-at-arms was helping climb down from the cart.

Sansa's breath gusted from her lungs as Shae straightened, her lips pinched in displeasure at the penetrating cold and the snow clinging to her thick cloak. But even as her former handmaid's dark gaze found her, a bright smile coming to her pretty face, it wasn't her that had Sansa's chest tightening painfully and relieved tears pricking at her eyes.

It was the little boy she held bundled securely in her arms, his little hooded head peaking out from the Lorathi woman's cloak where she had it wrapped tightly around them both. The little boy who looked nervously in her direction with large emerald green eyes as Shae's head dipped close to his, whispering words to him that Sansa couldn't hear as she pointed in her direction.

Sansa didn't hesitate. She darted forward almost the moment she picked out Shae among the new arrivals, her own thick cloak billowing around her as she briskly crossed the courtyard, heedless of the slush muddying the hems of her dress.

She didn't stop until he was gathered safely in her arms, his little hands clutching at the fur of her cloak as she clung to him, breathing in the scent of his hair, not even caring that it was tainted by the familiar bitter tang of the dye she'd long since stopped using on her own copper locks.

Nor could she stop the steady, whispering stream of nonsense spilling from her lips as she wrapped her own cloak around his small form, enclosing the little boy as though she could hide him away from the harsh realities of world. She simply didn't care.

He was in her arms again.

Her son had come home.