Chapter Text
It made for strange family dynamics when a father wanted his children to marry each other, and his children wanted anything but.
Father had always been distant, lost in his prophecies and dreams, preferring the company of his dusty old scrolls to the company of his children. Sansa (Visenya formally, but she had never been fond of the name) and her siblings had known for most of their lives that Father thought Aegon to be the prince that was promised, the next incarnation of The Conqueror, Rhaenys and Sansa meant to be his sister-wives reborn. They had even been given dragon eggs as children, something that hadn’t been practiced by the Targaryens for at least a generation.
There were problems with Father’s ambitions. Sansa held no desire for Aegon, nor Aegon and Rhaenys for one another. Viserys and Daenerys certainly had no carnal feelings in common, either. All five of them had grown up in close quarters, and they knew one another’s wants and desires much more clearly than Rhaegar ever could. Viserys and Rhaenys wanted each other, they always had- Viserys had always cherished Rhaenys and Rhaenys was the only one that could calm Viserys’ bursts of temper.
Aegon’s wants had always been a bit more fickle, his fancies quick and fleeting as hot-blooded young men were wont to do. But then his heart seemed to settle on Lady Allyria Dayne, a romance born and kindled with his frequent trips to visit his mother’s kin.
The three of them circled around one another, leery of their father as one by one they came of age. As Sansa neared her fifteenth year, whispers came around court that Aegon had gotten his Dornish mistress (paramour, Aegon would have corrected with a flash of that temper that brought up comparisons to his viper uncle) with child. Rhaenys drew her aside for a walk through the gardens and in the safe company of her Dornish and Reach ladies, revealed that Aegon’s lady love carried not his bastard but his heir, for he had wed Lady Allyria not a month passed. Watching as Sansa overcame her shock, Rhaenys then asked whether her little sister would like to accompany her on a trip to visit Viserys. Sansa’s breath caught and her heart leapt, for Viserys’ seat of Summerhall was so achingly close to Storm’s End.
For if Sansa knew her siblings’ wants, they knew hers in return. There was only one man so beloved that Sansa Targaryen would defy all tradition and protocol, to move past bittersweet longing to something real and true.
Oh, what were her siblings planning?
The day Rhaenys and Sansa set out for Summerhall, a raven carried a message bearing Prince Aegon’s seal to Storm’s End, and Jon Baratheon rode out the next morning with all the fire and haste his great black stallion could muster.
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When they were children, Jon had spent time at court as a page. It was common knowledge that Robert Baratheon was reluctant to allow even that, especially considering he sent Jon to squire in the Vale instead of accepting Ser Arthur’s offer. For the few years that they were companions, Jon became one of her favorite playmates, always more willing to play her knight than Aegon. When they played monster-and-maidens, Jon was always gentle with her when he caught her. He slipped lemon cakes her way whenever they were served, the soft smile that always accompanied his offers causing her heart to flutter.
When they were eleven, Jon was her first kiss, a chaste, sweet thing shared between them on the eve of Jon’s leaving. It would be the last time she saw him for another four years.
She next saw him again during the celebration for her father’s fortieth nameday. He had grown tall and strong, impossibly handsome in a black doublet slashed with cloth-of-gold, the rich dark color rendering his eyes the beautiful, dangerous gray of a storm-cloud. As they danced, those stormy eyes never left hers, and Sansa felt something profound move and shift inside her. From that moment on, she knew she would never be able to go through with her father’s plans.
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Jon gently tossed her back against the bed (belonging to guest chambers at Summerhall) and pounced down after her. Sansa laughed as they landed, the sound joyous to his ears. He grinned down at her and wrapped his arms around her, pecking his lips playfully as they fell into one another. Sansa responded by burying his fingers through his hair, angling his mouth down to hers.
Jon groaned into his kiss, shifting until their bodies pressed close, Sansa’s legs locking around his hips. She slid her hands beneath his tunic, urging him to lift up as together, they pulled the garment over his head. He fell back over her, kissing her once more with a throaty sound of satisfaction as Sansa began to explore his bared torso. She ran her fingers over the planes and angles of his body, delighting in warm, smooth skin over sleek muscles.
Their kisses slowed, their caresses gentled, and when they drew apart with baited breath, Jon sighed contently and nuzzled against his cheek. “Could this truly be real? I feel as if I should still be dreaming in my own bed. Are you truly here with me?”
Sansa kissed him softly, placing her hand over his and entwining their fingers. “If you are dreaming, Jon, we are dreaming together. I might dare to believe this to be real and true, but if it is not, then stay with me, husband.”
“I’ll stay with you, wife, and we’ll keep dreaming together.”
She took his hand, guiding it beneath the hem of her shift. The coupling that followed was a clumsy, graceless thing, but it was sweet nonetheless. They lay wrapped in one another’s arms in the trembling aftermath, shy but contented smiles on their faces as their foreheads touched and they regarded one another silently.
“Do you suppose this makes us like Durran and Elenei?” she asked softly.
Jon hummed thoughtfully, tucking a few stray curls behind her ear, stroking his fingers down her cheek. “I don’t think our fathers’ fury can quite match that of the gods.”
“We can only hope.”