Wildling King Jon X Queen In The North Sansa AU~

Sansa: I kissed Jon. Margaery: You kissed Jon? Sansa: In the elevator. Margaery: Why’d you kiss him in the elevator? Sansa: I was having a bad day. I am having a bad day. Margaery: This is what do you do on your bad days, make out with Dr. McBroody?

@jonxsansafanfiction remix free day meredith grey x derek shepherd (grey’s anatomy)

Oooh loove this😍

Askbox prompt: Jon/Sansa Jane Austen Au? Thank you lovely! :)

It’s a little more regency inspired by way of Georgette Heyer, but I hope it might serve ;)

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“I don’t see what the fuss is about,” Arya complained, flinching away from the darling grey ribbon Sansa was tying into her hair. “It’s only Jon. You were positively awful to him before. I don’t see–”

“Only Jon is our cousin,” Sansa announced airily over her sister’s complaining, as though Arya did not know this. “Only Jon is finally home from the Continent and we ought to give him a proper welcome, wearing proper clothing and not the tattered rags you wear to ride Nymeria.” 

Jon’s visit was the first they would have visitors after their parents’ deaths, and though she had always found him dour and odious, and though she and Arya were still in the greys and lavenders of half-mourning, Sansa was determined to make the best of it. There were only a few months left before it was up to Aunt Lysa to launch her into the ton. If she could be gracious to her cousin Jon, then she could handle anything.

Sansa tugged helplessly at the bodice of Arya’s soft muslin morning dress. Arya was growing so fast, though, and she was already wearing one of Sansa’s spare gowns to accommodate her height.

“Jon isn’t going to care about any of this,” Arya complained again as she stomped down the stairs toward the drawing room where Jon was waiting for them. 

Sansa did not have the chance to argue with her. In fact, all her fantasies of testing her charms on their cousin with her performance on the pianoforte, or whiling away the time discussing Lord Byron’s poetry, were quickly dashed when they entered the drawing room. 

It turned out that Jon was not, in fact, the sullen cousin who spent his summer visits slouching around Winterfell. Instead, he was straight-backed as he examined the books shelved by the mantle and, when he turned to greet them, Sansa saw that he cut an excellent figure in his Hussar uniform. While Arya dashed forward to greet him, Sansa gripped the entry table with a flash of panic. 

“Captain Snow,” she said weakly as Jon bent to kiss her hand – not at all the sisterly kiss he had laid on Arya’s hair. “What a pleasure.”

Show!Jon Snow with (Jonsa) baby - requested by anon

uh oh.

Jon Snow by saikou73

Jon wakes to a pounding at his door. The cabin is dark, the only light from the banked fire. Jon was warm beneath his covers, but when he sits up, chilled air slips beneath, making him shiver. The pounding comes again, and Jon swings his legs out of bed, his stockinged feet meeting the cold hardwood. He barely feels it, all his attention on the door, and who could possibly be seeking him out in the dead of the night. Or what, his mind whispers, but he shakes that out. Jon is not a superstitious man,

for the @jonsa-halloween event day 1: witch

read it here on ao3

quick sansa sketch to try out new brushes

Lyanna I

When Jon was small, it was not rare that he was mistaken for a girl. He was short for his age, a bit shy, had long eyelashes, and was very pretty.

This meant that he got away with way too much. He was sneaky enough as it was, but if ever he was caught at something, he’d give the best puppy-eyed look that Lyanna had ever seen- and she’d grown up with Ned.

It was also true that Jon had been a knight at four. Or, at least had tried his very best to be. He’d gotten his first wooden practice sword when he was younger still, and his father had taught him to carve runes into it, for protection, like they still did in the far north. There was one for dragons, and one for ghosts, one for snarks, and so on. And so Jon was rarely scared of there being monsters under his bed. If anything, they ought to be afraid of him.

Now, on Jon starting on his quest to become a knight, it began like this:

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my dear jonsas, someone please write something of this sansa with this jon.

thank you very much.

Can we have a ficlet for your arranged marriage period fic? Pretty please (or some info about it, I understand if you do not want to share too much)<3

The Duke of Dragonstone paid his stablehand three pounds for the pups, as it was just enough for him to purchase a new hound of quality to whelp in order to ensure that such a circumstance as the one he found himself in now could never happen again.

“You will feed them yourselves, clean up after them yourselves, and once they pass, you will bury them yourselves.” He had said that afternoon with a severity the three ladies of the manor did not care to note, as they were too busy squealing, jumping up and down and fawning over the basket he held in his hand.

An hour later, they remained enamored with the two latest additions to their household on the floor of the parlor, and Jon Targaryen had a sneaking suspicion that before long, he would be happening upon one of the chambermaids picking up dog droppings from the hardwood floors.

The albino pup they’ve christened Ghost is shyly edging out from underneath a bookshelf, coaxed by Daenerys and Shireen. At his feet, the Duchess sits holding the pup she has christened Lady to her cheek. She cradles the mass of gray and white fur to her chest as if it’s a babe.

“Is she not the most heavenly thing you’ve ever seen?” sighs Sansa, beaming up at him.

Were she just a bit more heavenly, she’d be six feet underneath a patch of dirt right now, and he would have three more pounds and a quieter house.

“I can hardly stand it,” He remarks dryly, flipping his newspaper.

To his left, old Uncle Aemon releases a cough that sounds suspiciously like a chortle.

Deep down, Jon knew that it isn’t about the money, for he has more than enough. It was more the principle. He had lost count of how many times his wife had swindled a yes from him after he provided her with a firm no. Even Daenerys and Shireen had taken note, and knew that if they could present their case to the lady of the house, then all was not lost yet. Though they knew not how she always managed to convince him.

Jon didn’t know either. It always happened before he could manage to stop it. One minute, she was in front of him in her prettiest dress and the most damnable request, and the next, her face was lit up like an inn on a winter night, hand on his inner arm, forehead to his.

He’d tried saying no to her on at least three occasions. Afterward, he always felt awful. He decided quickly in their six months of marriage that a short bout of irritation was leagues better than that.

Sansa sat the pup down on the carpet, and though it lingered for a moment, it scurried into Dany’s waiting arms at the sound of her encouraging coos. She nuzzled into her cheek, face bright.

Sansa rested her chin on his knee. His sarcasm was not lost upon her, he knows, but the way she gazed up at him was a chastisement enough.

It was always so much gentler, so much warmer, so much kinder than he deserved.

“Ghost will be a good hound for you, your grace.” She quipped, then. “You two are of a similar disposition.”

The albino pup poked a wary head out from underneath his shelter, and Jon could not tell if she was calling him shy, unsociable, strange, or all three. Then, he thought of the way it had nosed its way into Sansa’s décolletage only seconds after she picked him up and he came to the conclusion that he perhaps had more in common with the pup than he previously thought.

And he had been called worse by others who did not sleep beside him at night.

He still scowled, and he was glad he did, because it made her laugh.

“Uncle Aemon,” She said, voice still high and sweet from mirth, “How was I so fortunate to marry the most generous of gentlemen in all of London?”

At that, Uncle Aemon laughed; long and hardy.

“My dear, I suspect many would say otherwise.” He remarked, affectionate.

“They would be speaking nonsense.” She replied.

After dinner, Jon retired to his study to share a drink with his uncle; and they both listened to the mingled shouts of both amusement and dismay as the ladies of the house tried their hand at bathing their new pets.

“I’m afraid we share a home with the three silliest girls in all of London,” He muttered, more to himself.

Once again, his uncle laughed.

“And what would you do without your silly girls?” He asked.

Utterly lost, he knew. Of that, he was completely certain. But Jon did not say so. He did not need to.

Instead, he wondered if his silliest girl would join him in earnest in bed tonight.