In The Works

Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire - Jaime/Sansa Time Travel Fix-It

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

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Summary

tbw

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Another plunny attacked me....

Because Time Travel Fix-Its are just too much fun, and apparently by brain wants to give it a shot. So here we are: a story where the Battle for the Dawn goes terribly wrong and the last few survivors make a desperate play in their final moments, appealing to the Old Gods to give them another chance with an offering of the last of their life's blood.

Sounds fun, right? Right?!

Primary pairing will of course be Jaime/Sansa. Rest are undecided.

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Prologue

Sansa was not too proud to admit that Arya was likely even more skilled than she was at keeping the truth of her thoughts and feelings behind whatever expression she chose to wear on her features. But sometimes, though it happened rarely, she did slip.

And just then, beneath the ancient Heart Tree of Winterfell, Arya was slipping.

There was a bleak quality to her meticulously-crafted enigmatic expression as Sansa levelly met her sister's eye. As she'd approached the gnarled roots of the weirwood, with no more than a glance Arya had seen almost immediately what Sansa already knew.

The wound she'd taken in the Crypts despite Tyrion's valiant sacrifice was a mortal one.

Already, her strength was draining away with her life's blood, soaking the skirts of her dark gown and melting the snow beneath her to stain the weirwood's white bark the same vibrant red as her Tully-red hair where she sat against the massive trunk.

She knew it wouldn't be much longer.

Yet still she clung to the hand in hers as she hummed, the soft tune filling the eerie stillness. Deep as they were in the Godswood, the final, futile moments of their desperate last stand against the dead couldn't be heard.

Save the distant, ominous sound of the dead working to break down the thick doors that lay between them.

Slumped at her husband's feet against the massive root she distantly remembered her father often sitting on, Gendry lifted his head from his hands, his dark blue eyes dulled with shock and sorrow. He barely reacted to Arya's sudden, silent arrival, staring up at her, uncomprehending.

Until he did.

They'd lost.

The grave, defeated look in Jon's eyes as he collapsed next to Sansa, leaning heavily against her as the last of his strength left him too only confirmed it.

The last Baratheon's head fell back into his hands.

Looking down to her husband where his head cradled in her lap, Sansa continued to comb her numb fingers comfortingly through his hair. Absently she marveled at how, even despite the sweat, grime and blood matting the strands, the guttering firelight still managed to catch on a few stubborn glints of gold.

It was an odd thought to fixate on.

But it was better than lingering on the gruesome wound from the ice-sword that had torn through his breastplate into his belly. Or on the smear of blood painting the weirwood roots nearby where Theon had succumbed to his own wounds; the dying fire of the makeshift pyre Davos, Sandor and Tormund had made for him was losing its fight against the cold.

It wouldn't be long before it died too.

"When I figured I would go first from the comfort of your arms, little wife, this was not quite what I envisioned." She couldn't quite catch her breath enough to laugh, but her chest tightened in a ghost of the sensation, and she couldn't help the small smile that curved her lips.

Even dying, her indomitably brazen knight couldn't keep his tongue in check.

But there was a weariness to Jaime's wavering voice and a grim light in his emerald eyes, dulled though they were by the same haunted resignation she was sure he saw in her own. His skin was cold beneath her fingers in a way that had little to do with the soul-penetrating cold, and had slipped far past pale into the pallor of imminent death. Dimly, she felt the burn of a single tear slice down her cheek, impossibly hot for the briefest of moments before it too froze.

Part of her wanted to sob and scream with grief just as she once had when her father's head had been parted from his shoulders. Watching Jaime slip away before her eyes, helpless to do aught but sit with him, ripped a chasm into her soul much as her father's execution had.

But she didn't have the strength left.

Nor, truthfully, the will.

Because another part of her felt only relief.

She doubted she'd be more than a few laboured breaths behind him.

There was a surprising amount of peace to that realization.

She was so tired.

She squeezed his hand as best she was able.

"I know, Jaime," she whispered, unable to draw breath or will enough to say more. There was nothing else to say, while at the same time there was far too much.

But the corners of his eyes crinkled, his lip quirking in the ghost of a smirk as she started to hum once more, her hand steady as she smoothed her fingers through his hair. "I like when you sing," he murmured, his focus beginning to waver and slip.

How she wished she still had the strength to.

Next to her, Jon sighed heavily. It took a monumental effort for Sansa to look to her brother in all but blood. His dark eyes were despondent as he met hers and Bran's where he sat staring sightlessly up at the weeping face of the Heart Tree before looking to Arya where she'd sunk down next to Gendry and finally back to Sansa before they slid away, sightless with anguish and grief.

"I thought we had a chance," he rasped.

"No, we didn't."

One by one, they all looked up at the unsettlingly calm, emotionless correction. Even Jaime managed to twist, peering blearily up at the blank-faced Stark. "We lost a long time ago."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean," Sandor growled, his scars twisting as he scowled, his temper visibly rising. Arya exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Sansa, her expression swiftly turning wary as they both caught the bewildered expression on Jon's face turning swiftly to one of betrayal.

Bran finally looked away from the weirwood face, sparing a glance at all of them. "This was the way it had to be."

Davos was the first to break the eerie silence.

"What are you saying," he demanded, his Flea Bottom brogue thickening, "that it was all for nothing? Everyone we—everyone we lost..."

With a choking howl, Jon lurched to his feet, rounding on Bran. "We could've evacuated, tried something else—instead we—we..." his voice broke. But Bran just looked placidly up at him.

"Everything happened the way it had to."

​​"No more riddles, Bran. Please," Sansa murmured. Bran turned his unsettling gaze to her.

"Everything had to happen as it did to bring us here."

"Here," Arya repeated, her eyes narrowed and voice cool for its skepticism.

"Yes."

"Why," Sansa asked.

"So we can try again."

Even the distant sound of the dead working to break into the Godswood seemed to fall silent.

"A—again?" Jon's faltering voice sounded like a shout.