wherein rhaegar wins the war, and jaime manages to keep his head by taking a stark for a wife; or five times jaime lannister braved his marriage and the one time he was brave for its sake

It had taken her quite some time to name her Queensguard. Not to choose them; Sansa had been choosing them for a great deal of time – since the day she watched her father die, in truth – her choices growing and expanding over the years until she’d known with no doubt who would make up her Queensguard before she knew for certain she would be Queen. But a Stark girl ruling Westeros alone was unprecedented enough, even without her unorthodox choice of guard, so Sansa had tread carefully when naming them, choosing her times and her methods with all the canniness she’d learned at the hands of men like Petyr Baelish and women like Cersei Lannister.

Sansa knows, standing on the steps of the Great Sept, staring into Joffrey's triumphant eyes, the blood her father soaking the stones and all the Lannisters' beautiful promises ringing in her ears, that Starks have always been the best liars.

Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no husband and bear no children. I shall wear no gowns and no jewels. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life's blood to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come. -The Sisterhood of the Night's Watch

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, or: Sansa goes home.

Myrcella knows what is said of her rule behind her back, that she presides over a court of bastards and women. Who better to rule a realm of bastards and women?

In her dreams Sansa Stark wanders the ruins of Winterfell, wearing a crown and paced by a pack of wolves.

Margaery Tyrell licked her thumb and rubbed at the lion on her breast, which smudged and faded in a way that Sansa's dragon never would.

Brienne looks like the perfect portrait of a knight, kneeling in supplication before her lady.

in which Jaime has A Very Sound Plan when it comes to his family's objections to his marriage with Brienne.

“I slept fine enough,” Jaime grins back. “And I’m sure your daughter won’t have my head for anything that’s happened in the last moon.” “That she won’t,” her father agrees. “And please, the last thing I dared hope for her was that she’d marry someone who would just care for having heirs and not even knowing them. All things considered, I think any woman in the realm would kill to have you for a husband.” “Just everyone’s luck that she waited long enough to run into me, right?” Or: in which Brienne is off being a knight in shining armor and Jaime is in no way shape or form stopping her from doing it.

Arya likes the way things are with her soulmate—playing softball in dreams, talking about nothing and everything. But it still feels like cheating when she dreams of Gendry.

The dead fell. The dead fell, and Gendry’s heart was racing, pounding so hard inside of his chest that he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Silence crept across the courtyard and the sound of his heart beating only got louder. Puffs of air left his lips in tiny, gasping breaths as he stared down at the mountain of bodies below. Next to him, Tormund, the ginger wildling who had somehow wound up next to him atop the heap, spun in a circle, surveying. Across the courtyard, Gendry could hear someone shout, “What is this?” “Is this a trick?” Someone else responded. “He did it,” Tormund breathed. His voice was as soft as a whisper. Gendry turned to him, his heart still pounding in his chest and his fingers still wrapped around his hammer so tightly that he could seldom tell where his skin began and the shaft ended. Tormund’s blue eyes turned to him, wide, joyous. “That bloody crow did it.” Gendry couldn’t speak.