Chapter Text
Lockers slam shut and voices echo down the school’s hallway. Over the speakers, a voice reminds them about the possibility of purchasing the tickets for the end of school dance. Sansa Stark stands between Margaery and Jeyne, her locker wide open, books half-stacked in her arms as she tries to remember what class she even has next.
Her mind isn’t really on school today.
Not since— Nope. She shuts that thought down quickly, shoving a textbook into her bag with more force than necessary.
Margaery has already got her books out, and she waits for them as she scrolls through her phone, half-listening to Jeyne complain loudly about something. She is rambling about some new version of the same problem she has every day—her sister taking a whole hour to get ready for school in the bathroom they share, leaving Jeyne to scramble to get ready.
That’s something she and Jeyne always had in common, something they bonded over, having some type of antagonism towards their little sister. Except Arya isn’t really the type to spend more than ten minutes in the bathroom every morning, and except for the fact that lately they’ve been going along surprisingly well. Even Mom and Dad, usually too wrapped up in their own jobs and their youngest children, noticed the positive change.
School is fine, her friends are great and her sister is slowly becoming an actual friend, and not just someone she is inevitably forever bonded to by blood. Everything is perfect. It’s such a comforting thought.
Until, as if the universe itself scheduled it to mess with her head and ruin the rest of her day, Robb and the poor excuse of a human being he calls girlfriend walk by.
She remembers, suddenly, that maybe not quite everything is perfect.
Robb is laughing at something, head tilted slightly toward the, almost unnaturally pale and yet staggeringly gorgeous girl at his side. Their hands are intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like their whole relationship and the fact that they have absolutely no chill hasn’t completely altered the balance of Sansa’s existence.
Daenerys says something back, Sansa doesn’t catch what, but she sees her smiling in response. That same polished, effortless expression that has fooled everyone for years.
Neither of them look at her, not even by accident.
That’s somewhat comforting, because at the very least she knows they weren’t laughing at her, and yet unnerving at the same time, because it’s like neither of them are conscious of the fact that they both betrayed her.
“Ugh,” Sansa groans loudly, the sound cutting through Jeyne’s sentence mid-word.
Both girls turn immediately.
Margaery follows Sansa’s line of sight, and the moment she spots them, she rolls her eyes.
“This is what you get for not telling Robb last week.”
Sansa scoffs, turning back to her locker and grabbing another book she probably doesn’t need, just to have something to do with her hands. “I am creating a narrative! If I just show up with a boyfriend that Robb hates, it’ll be too obvious!”
Margaery arches a brow, unimpressed.
Sansa’s just thorough! Margaery knows that. They have that much in common.
“I thought you decided to make this just a quick flirting type of thing?” she asks. No, it’s not really asking, to be fair. More like prompting, in that way someone does when they already know the answer and just want to be smug about it. “Not that I’m complaining,” she adds smoothly. “This is going to be much more effective.”
That was what Margaery wanted from the beginning, after all. Sansa only meant to flirt with him a little, show up to a place where Jon and Robb would both be at, and find a way to introduce him to Robb. Then, he would break up with… her, and Sansa would finally be at peace.
(Something like,
Hi, Robb, here’s your keys. You forgot them on the kitchen table this morning, and since I’m such a good sister I’ve—Oh, who’s this? Jon and I are… seeing each other. That’s okay with you, right?
Yeah. Something exactly like that. And yet in the moment, it felt all wrong.)
On Friday, she thought it might have been something else, something awful and irreparable, something that Sansa could not afford to feel, but the more she thought about it over the weekend, the more she realized it was just a momentary unscratchable itch for not doing things properly.
Sansa hugs her books tighter against her chest, defensive without meaning to be. “Maybe I just don’t like to do things half-arsed!”
That’s what it was. All it was.
She thought she would be satisfied with a half hearted job, but Sansa Stark never leaves any project to chance. She will see this through in the most scrupulous way, at the best of her capabilities, and if that means seeing Jon Snow on a regular basis, then… Well, that’s exactly what Sansa will do.
Jeyne snorts, rolling her eyes. “I think you’re putting too much thought into this, babe.”
Margaery immediately nods her approval.
“And I think you are a little too eager to see this go down,” Sansa shoots back, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Any reason in particular?”
Jeyne freezes just for a second too long.
“What? No!” she says, dragging out the word just enough to make it sound entirely unconvincing.
Sansa hums under her breath, unconvinced.
It’s not like she doesn’t know. Jeyne has been painfully obvious about her crush on Robb for years. The way she lights up when he enters a room, the way she pretends not to notice him noticing other girls. The way she’s almost as mad as Sansa at the fact he is dating Daenerys, despite the fact that she barely knows her and has only heard various unflattering stories by Sansa over the years. Sansa is thrilled at the unwavering support, of course, but she’s been knowing something else is up for quite some time now. She and Margaery probably think they’ve kept it from her. They really haven’t. She was incredibly serious when she told Margie that Jeyne can’t keep a secret to save her life.
Once upon a time, Sansa would have thought it was sweet. That it would be so fun having Jeyne date her brother, and if things were to go well between the two, Jeyne would become like her sister for real. Now, she simply thinks Jeyne deserves better than him.
She opens her mouth to say something, she’s not even sure what, something sharp, probably, but not sharp enough to reveal to Jeyne that she does actually know about her hopeless crush on her brother, and that she can drop the act. But she doesn’t get the chance, because her phone dings inside her bag, and the familiar sound cuts through her thoughts instantly.
She pauses, Jeyne doesn’t seem to mind being momentarily forgotten. Sansa reaches in her bag, fingers brushing past her pink and glittering pencil pouch and the strawberry scented lip gloss she never leaves the house without, until she finds her phone.
It’s a message from Jon.
Her lips curve upwards before she can stop them, it’s an automatic reflex. Nothing worth investigating further.
“What are you smiling at?” Margaery asks, her tone too casual to be casual.
Sansa locks her phone immediately, like that might erase the expression from her face. She barely had time to read the message properly, but she got the gist.
“Nothing,” she says, with a small shrug and a bright smile.
Margaery and Jeyne exchange a very telling look.
Sansa pretends not to notice.
(Maybe, judging by their expressions, she thinks she might be just as bad as Jeyne at hiding things.)
—
He picks her up after school.
Sansa spots his car before she even spots him; it’s parked a little crookedly near the curb, older than most of the sleek, polished ones in the student lot. It’s nothing remarkable, the kind of car people don’t look twice at.
Sansa doesn’t know anything about cars, doesn’t really care to, she thinks the only thing they really need is the ability to get you from one place to the other quickly and safely, but even she can tell it’s nothing like the one their parents got for Robb. Still, Jon rests his hand on the wheel like it’s something he’s proud of.
They end up at a drive-through, the kind that feels almost outdated in a charming way. Jon orders for both of them before she can even reach for her wallet, brushing off her half-hearted protest with ease.
Now, they sit in his car, food balanced between them, the late afternoon light soft through the windshield
Sansa takes a sip of her shake, then glances at him from the corner of her eye.
“By the way,” she starts, casual, though she’s been meaning to say this since he texted her, “not that I don’t appreciate the spontaneity—” she adds quickly, because she does, actually. As a perpetually indecisive person, that’s one of the traits she enjoys the most in other people, “—but next time you wanna take me out, ask me in the morning at the very least?”
She turns slightly toward him now, one leg tucked under the other.
“You know…So I can wear something pretty for you.”
Jon blinks.
“Uh…” His eyes flick over her, quick at first, then slower, more deliberate. “Yeah. Sorry.”
Sansa watches him watching her.
It’s different from the way other boys do. It’s not lingering in that way that feels entitled or invasive. His gaze traces the details, her flower-embroidered jeans, the soft ruffles of her camisole, like he’s trying to take it in properly. Like it’s something worth noticing.
Something in her chest shifts.
“You’re forgiven,” she says lightly, leaning back into her seat, letting the moment pass before it can settle too deeply. “I’m just glad I decided to wear such a nice outfit today, so I could look my best for our very first date.”
She gestures vaguely down at herself, even though she knows he’s already seen it. Still, she doesn’t mind giving him another excuse to look.
He doesn’t disappoint, quickly looking at her before looking away just seconds after, like he’s afraid she might call him out for being a creep or something.
“This isn’t our first date,” Jon says, with certainty, after he shakes himself off.
Sansa rolls her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Parties don’t count as dates, Jon. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
Boys. Honestly. They have such different concepts to what’s dating and what isn’t from what girls do. Their standards are so low. It’s fine, though. She’ll let this one slide because he ‘s so pretty—
Oh. She pauses, just for a second.
He is pretty. In a way she hadn’t really noticed at first. Or maybe she had, and just hadn’t lingered on it. Of course, she noticed he was handsome, she even told him upon their first meeting, but handsome and pretty are quite different things, aren’t they?
Either way, she does notice now. The way his hair falls just slightly out of place, the way his eyes soften when he looks at her, the way his mouth curves when he’s about to say something he knows she’ll tease him for. He’s… yes, pretty. His future girlfriend will be a lucky girl.
Anyway.
Jon surprises her.
“No,” he says, smiling a little, like he knows something she doesn’t. “I mean, this isn’t going to be our first date. I have something nicer planned.”
Sansa raises a brow, intrigued despite herself. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs lightly. “Plus, I haven’t even asked you yet, have I?”
It isn’t said in a mocking way.
“No,” she replies, holding in a smile, “You haven’t.”
His gaze meets hers, dark eyes meeting blue ones.
“When I take you out on a date, you’ll know it.”
Her heart stutters.
“Oh,” she breathes out before she can stop herself.
She recovers quickly. Of course she does. This isn’t actually affecting her—he isn’t actually affecting her—she’s just like… like those method actors! The ones that get too caught up in roles and do weird things like starting to talk with completely different accents from their own even off set. That’s what this is. She might start to consider a career in movies after all of this.
“So,” she continues smoothly, tilting her head in wonder, “what are we going to call this, then?”
Jon glances at her, amused. “Does it have to have a name?”
“Ummm… yes?” she replies immediately. “What am I supposed to call this when I’m recounting every single detail to my friends?”
That makes him pause.
“Do you guys tell each other everything?” he asks, considering.
Sansa laughs softly. “Yup.” She pauses, then furrows her brows slightly, as she ponders over his question. “Do you not tell your friends everything?”
“Not really,” he admits. “I mean… I guess Sam knows everything about me, but that’s just because he talks a lot and he’s… like, safe, I guess. He makes you feel like you can say anything to him.”
There’s something fond in the way he says it.
Sansa smiles. “He seems like a really good friend to have. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet him on Friday.”
“He’s not really big on parties,” Jon says. Then, after a beat, “I’m not either, to be honest.”
“Really?” she teases, glancing at him. “I hadn’t noticed.”
A small smile tugs at his lips.
“So why did you?” she presses.
“Why did I what?”
She rolls her eyes. “Go to the party.”
He hesitates for only half a second. “I thought it’d be obvious.”
It most definitely was.
“Maybe I wanted to hear you say it,” she replies, softer now.
Jon doesn’t hesitate this time.
“Okay,” he says simply. “I only went because of you.”
Sansa stills, her teeth catch her bottom lip as she looks at him.
He means it. She doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse, but there’s no performance or exaggeration in it. Just something honest and a little unsure, like he’s not entirely certain how she’ll take it.
He ticks a strand of hair behind his ear, almost absently, and then looks back at her, hopeful and open.
Her heart picks up again.
Sansa decides, very deliberately, not to think about it.
Not about the way he’s looking at her. Not about the way her chest tightened when he spoke.
Instead, she does what she’s always been good at: deflect.
She drops her empty milkshake cup into the crumpled paper bag at her feet, which they’ve been using as their makeshift bin, then brushes her hands together like she’s finished something important. Then, without giving herself time to second-guess it, she unbuckles her seatbelt, and deliberately moves.
Jon watches her the entire time.
She can feel his attention following every shift of her body as she turns in her seat and climbs into his lap, one knee settling on either side of him. There’s barely any space in the car for it, but she makes it work.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, voice low, a little amused, a little unsure.
Sansa pauses just long enough to look at him like he’s said something ridiculous. Her gaze flicks pointedly downward, at where she’s straddling him, and then back up to his face. His hands have already found her thighs, almost instinctively, fingers curling against the fabric of her jeans.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks, placing her hand over his. His skin is warm.
He huffs a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Maybe,” he says, a teasing tilt of his lips already there, “I wanted to hear you say it.”
Sansa gasps, scandalized, even if the smile tugging at her lips gives her away. “You’re such an ass,” she says, aiming a light punch at his shoulder.
He catches her wrist easily, and instead of letting go, he brings her hand up and presses a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles.
It’s completely unfair. Something in her stomach flips, quick and unexpected, and she hates it. Hates how easy it is for him to do that. To say nothing and still make her feel—
She pulls her hand back, a little too quickly.
He needs to stop doing things like that. Or she might actually start feeling something for him, something akin to wanting, and that would totally derail her plans.
No. She won’t.
“Tell me,” he says, quieter but demanding in a way that would make her knees buckle if they weren’t already wrapped around him.
“No,” she whispers, leaning in anyway, deciding she doesn’t need to play this part out any longer.
Her lips are just about to meet his, and at the very last second, he turns his head. Her mouth brushes against his cheek instead.
She pulls back just enough to glare at him.
“Jon,” she says, her voice dipping into something dangerously close to a whine.
He doesn’t look sorry. Not even a little.
“Tell me,” he repeats.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it now.
Well. Fine.
She isn’t used to having to beg for things.
Especially for kisses from boys she is only pretending to like, but that’s the beauty of acting.
“I want you to kiss me,” she says.
The words come out quieter than she expects, and honest, in a way she doesn’t quite mean them to be.
Jon doesn’t hesitate this time.
His hand slides up from her thigh to the curve of her waist, steadying her as he leans in, closing the small space between them like it’s nothing. And then, he kisses her.
She sighs into the kiss. Her fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt, more for balance than anything else, or so she tells herself, and then she leans into him easily, like this is something she knows how to do.
The kiss deepens, just slightly, enough to make her breath catch, enough to make her aware of every small movement. The press of his lips, the way his thumb shifts against her side, the warmth of him everywhere she touches.
He moves suddenly away from her mouth, and she manages to suppress a whine long enough to realize he’s just moving on to her neck. He presses open kisses along her neck, sucking lightly at her throat, as her hands slide down to his neck, holding him close.
It’s easy. And that’s all it is.
Just… Easy. A performance she’s good at. A role she knows how to play. Actors kiss their co stars every day, don’t they?
Usually the other actor knows it’s fake though.
—
In the weeks that follow, she finds herself checking her phone more often than usual without even realizing.
She looks forward to his messages and the pictures he sends, and she takes pictures of little things that she thinks he’d like and has to talk herself out of being too eager in her texts and her replies.
She wonders if this is starting to become too much like how someone who’s actually interested in someone else would act.
But she laughs at herself before the thought is even finished forming inside her mind. No.
This is still a plan, and nothing has changed.
—
On Thursday afternoon, Sansa’s done with her homework early, and as she waits for dinner time, she is scrolling, half-bored through Pinterest.
On accounts of maybe, possibly, starting to get a little too much into the whole hockey player’s girl aesthetic, her feed is full of pictures related to the sport. Most are something close to thirst traps, posted by the players themselves, but then she sees the cutest picture of a black cat wearing a tiny hockey jersey and a custom-made helmet, and she immediately thinks of him.
She doesn’t even reflect on it long, before she sends him the link.
sansa: this is u
He replies back quickly.
jon: a small black cat?
sansa: a cute hockey player
jon: i don’t know if i would consider myself a cat
jon: a wolf more like
sansa: mmmm i could see it
jon: could you now?
sansa: absolutely.
sansa: but in this analogy you are the black cat to my golden retriever
jon: how
She grins before sending the next message.
sansa: can your fragile male ego not handle being compared to a cat?
jon: i’m simply confused as to what makes me a cat
sansa: u have black cat energy
sansa: first of all, literally the colouring. u both have dark hair
jon: i’m not sure cats really have hair
jon: think it’s called a coat
sansa: shush
sansa: then, you’re both a little brooding & you like to be left alone
sansa: you probably hiss at people
jon: i don’t HISS at people
sansa: you’re not being very convincing
jon: whatever
jon: and you would be the golden retriever?
sansa: absolutely.
sansa: i’m friendly and charming
sansa: and everyone likes me
jon: that last part’s definitely true
—
On the days he has hockey practice, he sends her pictures. It becomes sort of a regular thing.
This one isn’t blurry as most of them are.
She may or may not have a separate folder on her phone for them. That’s a normal thing for her. She loves being organized.
jon: survived practice
This one is a mirror selfie taken in the locker room. He doesn’t have his jersey on, instead the photo only shows him with his hockey protective gear on, shoulder pads and arm guards, while showing his bare and toned midsection, wet from either sweat or a shower.
sansa: barely
She sends back a picture of her notes, complaining about the load of work her teachers have been assigning lately, and definitely doesn’t think about Jon Snow sweaty and defined abs for the rest of the evening.
—
She’s in the middle of dinner, pretending to pay attention to the truthfully not so engaging story Rickon is telling everyone about, when her phone lights up.
She doesn’t usually check her phone during dinner, Mom thinks it’s disrespectful and Sansa is always eager to please, but everyone seems to be either fully taken with Rickon’s story or completely spacing out, so she thinks it wouldn’t be disrespectful at all if she checked her phone for just a few seconds.
She opens her messages, and she is unsurprised to see Jon’s name at the top of her chats.
She clicks on his name, and is immediately met with a picture of a black cat snuggled close to a golden retriever, both soundly asleep.
jon: this is us
She stills.
She bites her lip softly, as she types the message.
sansa: you’ve come to your senses, then?
jon: i most certainly haven’t
sansa: suuuuure
sansa: so why are you sending me pictures of cats and golden retrievers snuggling
jon: no you’re the cat
sansa: see now you’re just talking nonsense
—
sansa: you know
sansa: i’m pretty positive the point of voice notes is to hear what the other person is saying
sansa: not about hearing the wind so loud it almost blew my eardrums out
sansa: i dont know if i’ll ever be able to ear from my right ear ever again
jon: you’re so dramatic
sansa: IM DRAMATIC?
jon: a little
sansa: yeah. a little
sansa: no but seriously jon
sansa: listen it back
After thirty seconds, she gets another message.
jon: oh yeah
jon: it’s unlistenable
She loves being right.
And, if she replays his voice note a second time, it’s only to try and figure out what he’s saying, and not because she hopes to catch a hint of his voice again.
—
She’s at their monthly sleepover with Margie and Jeyne, when she gets another post practice picture from Jon.
She doesn’t dare open it, not when her two, so lovely and so infuriatingly noisy, best friends in the whole world are in the same room as her.
Her fingers itch with the need to open it.
Twenty minutes later, she gets another couple of messages from him.
jon: made it home alive btw
jon: in case you were worried
She sees the notification lighting up her screen, but she waits to be alone to open it, because Margaery and Jeyne are still right in front of her, and she really doesn’t feel like talking about Jon to them right now.
Which is definitely what will end up happening if Sansa gives in and opens his chat in front of them. Margaery has the annoying habit of reading her texts from behind her back.
She decides to sneak into the kitchen, talking about needing some more water, and immediately takes out her phone from her pocket instead.
sansa: i wasn’t
A beat passes.
She really wasn’t, she waited a whole thirty minutes to even reply to his texts!
sansa: but i’m glad you did
jon: wow
jon: so caring
sansa: don’t get used to it ;)
—
The Tyrell dining room is almost too nice for their usual sleepover take out.
The table is still set from dinner, with emptied out take out containers, paper wrappers who once contained food, and three elegant glasses from Mrs. Tyrell’s favourite handmade glassware set catching the warm light from the chandelier above. The three girls are already slouching in their chairs, full and restless.
Jeyne is talking. Margaery is listening, chiming in every now and then.
Sansa is not really there.
Her phone now sits just beside her plate, screen dark, but she doesn’t need to look at it to know what picture will greet her once she unlocks it.
Jon, sitting on a bench in the locker room, helmet still on, hair damp and curling at the edges. It’s not even a proper picture, slightly blurry as they more than often are, like he didn’t think too much before sending it. She hopes that’s not the truth, she hopes he considered it very deeply before actually pressing send. It’s not even a completely new or that different picture from what she usually gets from him. She doesn’t know why she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it for the past twenty minutes.
“Sans?”
Her head snaps up.
“What?”
Margaery is already watching her, one brow slightly raised.
“I’ve asked you a question,” she says. “Like ten times.”
Sansa blinks, trying to catch up with the conversation she definitely hasn’t been following. “Sorry. What was it?”
Margaery leans back in her chair, crossing her arms loosely. “When are you going on a date with Jon next?”
Sansa frowns. “What do you mean next?”
“You know…” Margaery gestures vaguely, as if the answer should be obvious. “The second date after Monday?”
Sansa stills, just slightly.
That wasn’t even a date! Jon said so himself.
And despite what she told him that day—about how she tells her friends everything—she hasn’t really mentioned it to either of them. Not to Margaery, not to Jeyne. Not on purpose, obviously, it just hasn’t come up, and then it felt too late to bring it up without making a whole thing out of it.
It was a pretend not-really-date, and it didn’t mean anything. And anyway, they never settled on a name, so how could Sansa have talked about it to her friends?
She glances at Margaery, narrowing her eyes slightly. “How do you even know about Monday?”
Margaery only smiles, small and knowing. Of course. She always knows everything. Sansa would ask her how she always knows everything about everyone, but she is slightly scared of the answer.
She doesn’t answer the original question. She doesn’t really get the chance to, either.
“Okay, so,” Margaery continues, leaning forward now, excitement creeping into her voice, “I was thinking. You go somewhere very public for your next date and boom! We find a way to get Robb there.”
Sansa stares at her.
Then slowly brings a hand up to her temple, pressing her fingers there like she can physically stop the idea from forming.
“How would you even do that?” she asks, already tired.
Margaery and Robb are not close. Jeyne and Robb are definitely not close. There is no logical way this plan would ever work.
Margaery just smiles wider. “I have my ways.”
Sansa exhales through her nose. Yes. That’s exactly what she’s afraid of: Margaery Tyrell and her dangerous ways.
“I don’t know…” she murmurs, her fingers still at her temple, pressing a little harder now.
It sounds too calculated. Too much like something she can’t fully control anymore.
“Sansa,” Margaery sighs, leaning back again, clearly frustrated. “You said to wait some time. We waited. It’s been weeks since Robb dropped the D bomb. Now is the time.”
“I know…” Sansa replies quietly.
She does know. That’s the problem.
“But…?” Margaery prompts, watching her carefully.
Sansa drops her hand from her temple, suddenly irritated.
Sansa doesn’t talk about Margaery’s obvious emotional unavailability, and how she uses boys as toys to have fun, lead them on and then dump them when she’s bored of them or she feels like they’re becoming too attached, so why does everyone feel entitled to know what’s going on in her life every minute of every day? Why do they feel like they can interfere whenever they are bored or feel like they have nothing better to do?
“I don’t know!” she snaps, the words coming out sharper than she intended. “Can’t we just make popcorn and watch a scary movie and hide behind the blankets like we always do?”
There’s a brief silence. She rarely ever snaps.
Jeyne is the first to recover at Sansa’s quick, and yet surprising, small outburst.
“Of course we can, babe” she says quickly, her tone soft, placating.
Margaery doesn’t look convinced.
“I was just trying to help,” she says, and this time there’s something a little hurt.
Sansa’s expression softens immediately.
That’s not what she wanted. Not at all. She loves Margaery, emotional unavailability and tendency to strategize and every other little thing that makes her her.
“I know,” she says, quieter now. “I know that, I promise”
She reaches across the table, taking Margaery’s hand in hers, giving it a small squeeze.
“And I’m glad for all your help,” she adds, sincere. “But I’d rather do this myself from now on. Is that okay?”
Margaery studies her for a moment.
Then nods, slowly. “Okay…”
Sansa smiles, relieved.
“But you’ll still keep me updated, right?” Margie asks, a little serious behind the teasing tone.
Sansa can’t help but smile. “Of course. What kind of friend do you think I am?”
Keeping Margaery completely out of the loop? She’s not a monster.
“Glad that’s solved,” Jeyne cuts in, a little too brightly, glancing between the two of them. Then she looks back at Sansa, her expression shifting into something more curious. “Movie now?”
Sansa nods quickly, grateful for the change of subject.
“Yes,” she says, pushing her chair back and standing. “Please.”
Anything but plans and thinking too hard about what this is becoming.
Margaery clears the table, Jeyne starts making the popcorn, and Sansa is tasked with the very important decision of picking the movie.
As Sansa moves to the cinema room, and she’s briefly alone, she unlocks her phone and she’s greeted by Jon’s picture. She only looks at it for a second before closing the app entirely, as if the photo started burning her all of a sudden.
—
It’s very late by the time Sansa slips into Margaery’s bathroom to get ready for the night.
Technically, it would be more correct to say that she’s getting ready to sleep, or getting ready for the morning, since a quick look at her almost completely dead phone, confirms that it’s close to five in the morning.
The house is quiet in that eerie sort of way, where the silence feels soft, until a noise ruins the peace and makes you spiral, wondering if you left a window open and someone is inside your house. Downstairs, the third movie that they never actually finished watching still plays at a low volume, voices muffled by distance and sleep.
Margaery and Jeyne had passed out on the couch nearly an hour ago, tangled under blankets with half-finished bowls of popcorn balanced dangerously close to the edge of the coffee table.
Sansa had considered waking them up. Instead, she let them sleep. Maybe it was egotistical on her part, maybe she wanted some quiet time to think, or maybe it would have been more egotistical to wake them up.
Either way.
The bathroom light is warm against her tired eyes as she ties her hair into a low ponytail, catching her reflection in the mirror. Her makeup is slightly smudged from the day, lips faded, cheeks still a little pink from laughing earlier.
She reaches for her jewelry first. The routine is automatic by now, even in Margaery’s somewhat unfamiliar bathroom: first come off the rings, then the necklaces, then earrings, all carefully placed inside the little velvet pouch organizer she always carries during every sleepover.
At last, almost every piece of jewellery is off her body. Her fingers move without thought toward her second row of piercing, the one of the right side, when—
Oh. Right.
For a second, she simply stares at herself in the mirror, head tilted slightly as her fingertips brush against bare skin where the earring should be. The missing S-shaped earring feels strangely noticeable, like something is off balance about herself.
She’s been wearing those earrings for years now, after all. They were one of the few pieces of jewelry she almost never changed, delicate enough to match everything and sentimental enough that she never really wanted to swap them out. Now one of them is with Jon. The thought settles oddly in her chest.
Well. Anyway, she should probably replace it with something else tomorrow. One mismatched ear looks ridiculous. Unless he gives it back, obviously.
And she doesn’t know why the thought immediately disappoints her a little.
Sansa frowns at herself immediately after. That’s absurd. It’s just an earring. And it’s no reason to feel bad, it wasn’t a gift, it was an impulsive decision, so it’s no problem if he decides he doesn’t want it anymore, and instead gives it back to its rightful owner.
As she starts cleansing her face, rubbing the cool product carefully against her skin, her mind drifts anyway.
She wonders if he still has it on.
Probably not.
He probably put his own black hoop back in the second he got home and forgot all about her earring entirely. Which is fair. Normal, even.
Still, she hopes he put it somewhere safe. Not tossed carelessly into a drawer somewhere, or forgotten at the bottom of a bag. She hopes he remembers to give it back.
Sansa rinses her face quickly after that thought, like the cold water might wash it away too.
This is getting ridiculous.
She pats her skin dry with the neatly folded guest towel Margaery left out for them and stares at her reflection again while reaching for her night cream.
Honestly, she doesn’t understand why Margaery has become so obsessively invested in this whole thing.
Well. No, that’s not entirely true.
Margaery has always loved a good revenge plan. Always approached conflict like it’s a chessboard only she can fully see. Sansa would call it overzealous, at least not right to her face. But lately she feels like it’s becoming too much. Everything is strategy now. Everything needs to have perfect timing, and public places and ways to “accidentally” make Robb see them together.
As if Jon is just a prop or a tool. As if he is just Robb Stark’s least favorite person on earth.
And that feels unfair. Because he isn’t just that. Now she can confirm that.
He’s funny in this dry, unexpected way that catches her off guard constantly. Thoughtful in tiny ways most people probably don’t notice. Nice without making it feel performative. He listens when she talks and he remembers little things she tells him. He kisses her hand like he’s stepped out of one of the ridiculous romance novels she pretends not to reread religiously late into the night.
Reducing him to just a part of Sansa’s revenge scheme suddenly feels wrong. Not because Sansa feels guilty. Obviously not.
It’s just… Well, he’s a real person. That’s all. And Margaery seems to completely ignore that not so small and insignificant detail.
She smooths the last of her moisturizer into her skin with a sigh and turns the bathroom light off before she can think too hard about any of it.
Downstairs, the television still flickers quietly across the darkened room. Margaery and Jeyne are exactly where she left them, sleeping soundly under a pile of blankets.
Sansa pauses, looking at them for a moment.
Then she picks up her phone from the pocket of her hoodie. She opens his picture once again.
Her heart doesn’t do any of its usual annoying jumps.
Because, she reminds herself, absolutely nothing changed.