#this incurable yearning for something just on the tip of my understanding

[scooge]

it's a crime that I can't bite my own thighs

[ahornedgod]

got drabble: like this (we crave those time of peace)

@riahchan requested: “Jon x Sansa- cast into some other fandom that you like (like Harry Potter or something)” so here it is.

fire emblem: fates au!

a/n: i will be giving bit of info as i develop this (yes, it became more than a oneshot!), but for now, a little bg info to help understand what’s this about for those who aren’t familiar with the game.

two kingdoms have been at war for years. the North (which will be the equivalent of Hoshido), ruled by the Starks, and the South (taking the place of Nohr), ruled by the Baratheons/Lannisters. the Targaryens are gods of this world, the Divine Dragons, so to speak, not an actual ruling family of anything. Jon (who would be Corrin), son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, is... you’ll see.

anything else will be explained as we go. :)

It isn’t the explosion – that brings forth the terror.

Winterfell has a Harvest Festival every year, about a fortnight after her nameday – an important occurrence, with a big feast, and joyful music and dancing, and a much-awaited light show at dusk. It is grand and fun and her family enjoys it. There is not a face devoid on her family by the time they are making their way down to Wintertown.

Ever her ever solemn-looking cousin, Jon, smiles that day.

The very same cousin who had presented her with a crown made of winter roses for her eighth nameday – eighth! Her Lady Mother would still complain about how fast she grew on occasions – accompanied by a shy smile and rosy cheeks. If Sansa were truly honest with herself, and she is, she loves it more than the first present she received from him and his Lady Mother, her Aunt Lyanna.

She would have worn the crown today, had the roses not started to wilt; worn it proudly and gladly, for her cousin had not stopped smiling since she’d accepted his gift and it ever so pleases her to know it is because of her. She does not have much in common with Jon, not as her siblings do, so every moment – every smile shared is tremendously treasured.

Instead, she wears his other present: a silver pendant in the shape of a direwolf with a single encrusted sapphire to represent its eye.

The enthusiastic cheer of the smallfolk precedes their arrival, and not that much later, the royal family is wandering around the plaza. This day, she remains closer to Robb and Jon, going as far as grabbing hold of their hands. And while usually this would be met with exasperated huffs, today they both grin and squeeze her hands in response. Her Lord Father and Lady Mother walk slowly behind them, her little brother Bran wriggles excitedly in Father’s arms; next to them, Aunt Lyanna walks slower still as she leads Arya by her little hand.

There’s merriment aplenty and everything’s perfect—

—until it isn’t.

It is not the explosion – that brings forth the terror.

No; the explosion it’s a shock and carries enough force to knock the family and pretty much everyone on the surrounding area off their feet. Briefly, belatedly, Sansa catches glimpses of Father shouting commands as he kneels protectively over Mother as she tries to hug a crying Bran as close as her rounded stomach allows her. She watches as their guards rush forth, towards her and Robb and Jon; watches as her Aunt Lyanna passes Arya to Mother and rushes over too; sees as purple shards fly by them all.

Father is still screaming, Sansa can’t really make out the words over the rumbling of the earth and the even louder screams of the people—their people—the terror in their voices cutting through her shock and then she’s trembling and crying. Robb hugs her close to his chest and that is when she realizes they’re both kneeling on the ground and her big brother has a cut on his cheek and he’s bleeding and she can’t see Jon—where is Jon?

“Jon!”

For Sansa, it feels like forever until she catches sight of him, though it’s barely even a few seconds. Forever and nothing at all, because then there’s Aunt Lyanna throwing herself in front of her son and one of those purple shards hits her and she’s falling, falling, falling—

It isn’t the explosion, no; it’s the stillness that comes after, the soft thud as Aunt Lyanna hits the ground, the sob that breaks through Jon. It is the broken whisper; the heartrending scream that tears through Jon’s lips, the way he collapses.

The terror surges from within then, breaking through and settling in her bones and Sansa can only think why. Why is her sweet cousin glowing? Why is Robb pulling her away? Why aren’t they helping them?

Why. Why. Why.

Her question is lost among the sudden uproar of blasting winds and shaking ground and frightening screeches and Jon—except, it’s no longer Jon in the midst of the diming glow.

No.

Jon, that’s not Jon, that’s not…

All that Sansa sees before Father runs past her and Robb is the mighty shape of a dragon – then she sees no more.

*

*

A wonder, it is, that she doesn’t startle awake.

Instead, consciousness comes to her slowly, gently; the remnants of her dream—her memory—fade in and out, dancing around the edges of her conscious mind until such a time where she’s once more susceptible to it.

Then she becomes aware of gentle fingers trailing up and down her back, feather-light touches that seem to burn a path even through her nightgown. A shiver clambers up her spine, making her breath catch and her body to arch forward until she’s tightly pressed against an unclothed chest. A heartbeat later and the questing hand comes to rest over the small of her back, urges her closer still, and Sansa is compelled to muffle the whimper that escapes her lips into the crook of a neck.

Jon’s neck.

“I’m inclined to believe you wish for the King and Queen to demand my head, Princess.”

She feels more than she hears his words, soft as they come, in the rumble of his chest so closely pressed against her own. It does nothing to calm the rapid staccato rhythm her heart beats trapped as it is within her ribs. If anything, it does the opposite.

“If they were to find us now…” Jon trails off; she opens her eyes and knows it is still early, knows that most of the Keep’s residents are still asleep. “I doubt even knowing I am their nephew would spare me of their wrath.”

Sansa pulls back enough to meet his gaze, to catch the corner of his lips with a light kiss and watch as that very same corner turns up in what can only be a pleased smile.

“There will be no wrath,” she says. “We are promised to wed and,” she pauses, and smiles, “they wouldn’t dare hurt you knowing it would bring me great sorrow.”

“All the more reason not to tempt the Gods, Sweetling, you should go back to your chambers.”

Despite his words, Jon doesn’t loosen his grip on her, nor does he seem ever so inclined to let the kiss she gave him be the only one. He trails his lips over her face, kissing her forehead and cheeks and the tip of her nose; he paints a path down her jaw with open-mouthed kisses that send her heart once again clattering inside her chest, and then up, and up, up to her mouth.

He stops, drawing forth a breathless whine from her impatient self.

“Mother and Father won’t be angry if they were to find us here, Jon,” she insists, trying to bring their lips together without having to push him onto his back and take command of the situation – she’s a Lady, a Princess, the eldest daughter of King Eddard and Queen Catelyn of Winterfell; she oughtn’t do such things, she oughtn’t want to. “Please, do not fret.”

“It is not just their anger that worries me,” he looks properly conflicted, his eyes darting between hers and her parted lips; he will cave. “I don’t wish to incur their disappointment, Sansa.”

He does cave.

Jon rolls over – urges onto her back and for one wondrous moment sheds his self-imposed restrictions and kisses her, long and deep and passionate enough to steal her breath and leave her yearning, wanting—he pulls back abruptly, and if the slight tremble of his body is anything to go by, he’s probably trying to gather his wits about him.

Sansa would be utterly dishonest if she were to say she doesn’t like it—this, being his undoing.

As tempting as it is, however, watch him unravel before her, there is always a time and place for everything. Now is not the time—even if it might be the place, her mind whispers—not with a war hammering against their homeland’s door.

Soon thought, soon, she thinks as one of her fingers trail over the pointed shape of his ears – the only evidence of the Divine Dragon’s blood running through his veins.

Just like that, the pleasant atmosphere surrounding them shatters, and all the reasons why she’s been stealing into his chambers in the middle of the night for the past few days surface with a vengeance. They will be wedded and bedded within the fortnight; Jon and Robb will ride South to the frontlines a moon’s turn after the wedding in hopes of preventing the war from reaching Winterfell.

And Sansa will be left behind, possibly with a babe growing in her if the Gods were gracious, unable to do anything but wait and pray and hope.

I am a woman grown, of five-and-ten, she thinks, fiercely, stubbornly, I have not spent endless hours since my ninth nameday training archery and the healing arts to be left behind.

However strong is her desire to be the perfect Lady, nay the perfect Princess, her desire to protect those she loves runs stronger still through her veins. Has always been stronger. The Wolf Blood, her Lord Father used to say, to her and her siblings, it’s the Wolf Blood in them—the desire to protect their pack.

“Jon…” whispers Sansa as she pushes at his shoulders, gently but with clear intent; he does not question her, simply sits back and helps her do the same. “I dreamt of that day… again.”

There is what feels like an eternal pause as he peers into her eyes.

“What day?”

“The day you acquired this,” Sansa’s gaze drops to the silver chain decorating his neck; her hand raises to grasp the shimmering blue stone that hangs from it.

The day her Lord Father gave him this Dragonstone – to control the Divine blood within him, to help him keep his mind if he were to shift again; the day his Lady Mother died. The day that plunged Westeros into a never-ending war, breaking the relations between the North and the South irrevocably.

Seven years past.

Jon seizes her hand upon his chest, but otherwise does nothing—says nothing. She knows he remembers little of the incident, little of what happened after his Mother had hit the ground during that fateful Harvest Festival. Sansa herself remembers little of it too – remembers the dragon, remembers him shifting into the dragon, the fear, the confusion. But little else.

So she lets the silence stretch before them.

Because suddenly it doesn’t seem right to try to convince him of letting her join him and Robb when they march to the frontlines. Doesn’t seem right that she would take advantage of his vulnerable state of mind, knows he would concede if she were to ask now.

But it would be unfair and Jon would be so upset later, Sansa does not want that.

“I… should go back to my chambers,” she says at last, a little smile grazing her lips and at the very least it is one he returns.

“You should,” he replies, bringing the hand he’s kept pressed over his heart to his lips to kiss, and the he lets go.

She shuffles off the bed quickly, grabbing her robe along before slipping it on. She deliberates only a moment before darting forward to press one last kiss to his lips.

“I’ll see you later.”

And then she slips through the door.

Sansa takes a deep breath, maintains it, then releases it. With a resolute nod to herself, she moves towards her bedchambers, all the way across the end of the hall, quickly and silently. Not today, then; she won’t try to persuade Jon to let her march with him and her brother today. But there’s always tomorrow or the day after.

Sometime soon, thought, I do not wish to postpone it much longer.

Not today, but sometime soon.