Game Of Thrones By Pablo Olivera

if you’re still taking prompts……..i would love to see more regency au, like the first time they met/saw each other

It was Rhaenys who steered him over in the end with a long brown arm threaded through his, like a mother pulling her son by the ear. He told her he would approach her in his own time, but his sister would not hear of it. Jon tried to struggle without causing a scene, but it was all in vain, because as soon as they were in view, his old friend saw him almost immediately.

Then so did she.

“Dragonstone,” His voice carried.

At his side, Rhaenys beamed smugly. Oh, if she were a house cat she would have purred. And if they were still children, he most certainly would have tried to drown her.

“Winterfell,” He said back, swallowing down his nerves. The taste of contempt does not ease the way.

Robb Stark, the Marquess of Winterfell, approached him with the shade of a grin that used to get them into all sorts of trouble in their youth, accompanied by his party of three. He gave him a firm handshake, and a squeeze of his arm.

“Old friend,” He said, “But a stranger if I have ever seen one. Dukedom becomes you.”

They kept in touch after Oxford, through frequent letters and the occasional night out in the Ton when he visited during the season. But Jon loathed staying too close to home, every second that passed another where his father could sink his claws into him and conjure a reason for him to stay.

That was never Robb Stark. Eddard Stark died three years ago, but it did not take his passing for his son to come home and do his duty. Rhaegar Targaryen could not say the same.

It was why Jon loved him. It was why he envied him.

“The duke of Dragonstone, is it?” The older woman at his side broke in.

This, of course, could be no one other than the Marchioness—if her coloring did not give this away, her demeanor did, for he was now well acquainted with the behavior of pushy social climbing mamas.

It was unfortunate for her that he decided to dedicate the rest of his life to ignoring her daughter only a half a minute prior.

He refused to give Rhaenys the satisfaction.

“Forgive me. In my excitement, I forgot myself,” Winterfell said, though he did not look pleased to be interrupted. “Dragonstone, this is my mother, Lady Winterfell.”

“Your grace,” She curtsied minutely, graceful. Jon bowed his head.

“Our ward, Miss Poole,” Winterfell said, of the girl with the eyes of a young doe.

“Your Grace,” Her curtsy was more practiced, a bit grand. She immediately tucked her hands behind her afterward.

Winterfell gestured to the far left, “And my sister, Lady Sansa.”

Jon was left with no choice but to finally look at her.

Pearls scattered her hair like stars, gleaming pale against the autumnal fire. Thin tendrils cascaded from her chignon down her slender neck. Her gown was a shade of ivory adorned with tiny pink roses. She curtsied as gracefully as her mother, lashes lowered demurely, before she met his eyes. Summer blue.

“Your grace.” She said, voice a touch lower than he expected it to be. The voice of a woman,

She was even more striking up close.

Beside him, Rhaenys cleared her throat delicately.

Jon flushed, he hadn’t even bowed to her, he was so struck stupid, but there was nothing to be done about that now. He could feel a stammer on the tip of his tongue, so he had no choice but swallow and take more time.

“This is my sister,” Or, as he would have liked to call her in that moment, the bane of his damned existence. “Lady Highgarden.”

“A pleasure to meet you all,” She said with a smile he was most certain had its root in his current discomfort, “You most of all, my lord. I have heard a great many of things.”

“I hope all of them were great,” Winterfell said with a laugh, but he was charmed, as most men were when it came to her.

Rhaenys chortled at that, “Oh, indeed.”

It should have been something that warmed his heart, his two of his favorite people in the entire world finally meeting and sharing a laugh, and perhaps it would have been if he had not made a complete bumbling fool of himself at his sister’s insistence just seconds before. He was already coming up with an excuse to leave, searching for Dany’s silver gold head in the crowd, anything to avoid those damn blue eyes, when his sister launches her scheme first.

“I was just telling my brother that I simply could not dance another step,” She shook her head, as if regretful, before she smiled once more. “Would you be so kind as to take my place, Lady Sansa?”

Jon nearly choked on his own dread and disbelief.

Miss Poole inhaled sharply, overjoyed, as if she’d been asked to dance herself and Lady Winterfell glowed with pride and Lady Sansa—

She blushed, and it was the sweetest thing he ever saw.

“Since when do you dance?” Winterfell demanded of him, no longer charmed, not having it in the slightest.

“She would be honored,” Lady Winterfell interjected before her son could object entirely. “Wouldn’t you, dearest?”

“I would, your Grace,” Lady Sansa said, still blushing.

Shyly, she met his eyes again, her gloved hand a tentative offering.

Winterfell stared, appalled, and Rhaenys stood beside him, self-congratulation rolling off of her in waves, and his heart pounded in chest so hard that he could taste it in his throat.

Her hand was small and soft in his, and he made a new promise then, to be gentle.

hi!! :) i love all you fics i was re reading your princess diaries au and i was wondering if you had any plans on continuing? if you did i’d love to see the aftermath of jon missing his date with sansa and how upset arya is too! and the ball scene!! ily <3 :)

hi!!!!!!! this is really good timing asking this because i've actually been working on it a lot lately!!!! (@cellsshapedlikestars even helped me noodle my way through a part where i was stuck xoxoxoox)

i'm not sure if the next chapter will be the last or if i'll need to break it into two more (maybe a sansa pov??? not sure) but i've got at least one more jon bit coming that should cover at least some of that!!!

aaaaaand because i am so delighted to get a lil anon message about it, here is a sneak peek!!!!!

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“What happened to my romantic little boy?” she tuts, and Jon drops his head back to groan at the ceiling. 

“Mom, I’m not a little boy anymore.”

“I know, I know,” she says, and when he glances over, she’s haphazardly folding all of his tees into a messy little pile. “You’re all grown up now and ready to lead some foreign country, but when I look at you, I still see that same little boy who swore up and down that he was going to have a foot-poppin’ first kiss.”

“Mom!” He can feel the way his face flames hot, flushed, even though there’s no one there to witness his embarrassment other than the woman dead set on causing it. He wonders if he could get away with pretending he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but he’s pretty sure that wouldn’t stop her. 

“What?” she asks, mock innocent. “I’m not allowed to talk about what a sweet boy you were?”

“Can you just… not?” he begs again. “Please?”

The thing is, he does remember. They’d been watching some old movie, one of those black and white ones where everyone spoke in an inexplicable accent, and when the hero had grabbed his girl and kissed her, one of her feet had lifted off the ground as if it had a mind of its own. He’d been determined to have a first kiss equally as powerful, equally as passionate — and his mom had laughed. And then, when she’d seen how serious he was, how struck he was by her laughter when he was not joking, Mom, it’s not funny, she’d assured him that of course he would have a foot-popping first kiss one day. He guesses now that she already knew then not all princes were made out of fairytale stuff, but he’d been young and starry-eyed and determined to be different than his parents. And then he’d gotten older and reality had set in for him, too. 

“Besides,” he grumbles, “I already had my first kiss years ago, and Ygritte wasn’t exactly a ‘foot pop’ kind of girl.”

you hear about recovery not being linear (”there are ups and downs”), but actually it’s more like a game of wack-a-mole. this is not a bad thing

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.

Quick, spontaneous, definitely non-sober sketch of APWH Sansa Stark. Fuck that buccal fat removal nonsense- she is TWENTY and has ROUND CHEEKS because she is a BABY

It’s actually a wip for someone else and the finished product will be different but here ya go, little birdie as a baby. as a little kiddo. i wanna kiss her wittle nose. her hair is redder than canon bc it’s needed for the request. u will all see.

sorry for not drawing you often girlie i swear i’m just busy

Commissions are open!  

"I loved a maid as red as autumn,

with sunset in her hair,"

I always think about Sansa when I come across this verse 🥺

HELP

‘Morning Stretching’, watercolor by ENDRE PENOVÁC

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 ;)

*

“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.”