Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Let it be known that nothing good ever comes from a blind date.

Sansa Stark always believed this — an unspoken rule carved somewhere deep in her mind, just beneath the list of things that made her skin crawl: mismatched socks, undercooked pasta, people who didn’t say “thank you,” and blind dates. 

The funny thing was that Sansa was a hopeless romantic; it was in her nature. 

The irony wasn’t lost on her. A hopeless romantic who despised blind dates. It was like being a baker who hated flour. But there was something offensive about the idea, its transactional nature. The implication that love could be scheduled between meetings, wedged into the narrow margin between dinner and regret. A date arranged by people who thought they knew her better than she knew herself. It felt like cheating. Like skipping to the last page of a novel before reading the first chapter.

But here she was, sitting at a table she hadn’t picked, in a restaurant she wouldn’t have chosen, wearing a dress that felt like it belonged to someone else. Her reflection in the mirrored wall across from her looked polished, effortless even, but it was all a lie. A carefully curated version of Sansa Stark, designed for first impressions. The kind of girl who didn’t have opinions about mismatched socks or undercooked pasta, who smiled just the right amount and never let conversation slip into awkward silences.

The waiter refilled her glass of water, and she offered a polite smile, checking the time on her phone for the third time in five minutes. He was late. Of course, she thought, lips pressed into a thin line. Blind dates were like that — always a little disappointing before they even began. Maybe he’d show up and be charming, perhaps he’d even be attractive, but she doubted he’d make her feel anything other than the vague urge to escape through the bathroom window.

Her mind wandered, as it often did, to what she wanted. Not the man her friend Margaery insisted she’d hit it off with. Not someone tall and predictably handsome with a well-rehearsed smile. No, she wanted. . . God, she didn’t even know anymore. Something real. Someone who made her feel like she wasn’t just performing the role of ‘Sansa Stark, Winterfell’s precious daughter.’ Someone kind. 

Seated alone at a small, overly polished table in a restaurant that tried too hard to seem casual — “rustic chic,” according to the review Margaery had sent her — Sansa adjusted the sleeve of her dress and checked her phone for the third time. Margaery had insisted he was “charming and well-read,” the kind of man who wore tailored suits without looking like he was trying too hard, who had opinions about art galleries and could carry a conversation without making it about cryptocurrency.

A lawyer, maybe. Or finance. Someone with cufflinks.

“Seriously, my love, he’s just to die for,” Margaery had gushed with a bright smile. “You won’t regret it.” 

Sansa had rolled her eyes at that. The phrase clung to her now, as persistent and irritating as the faint itch under her neckline. To die for. Dramatic, overblown, the kind of thing Margaery said when she was trying too hard to sell something — a blind date, a designer dress, the illusion that life could be curated like an Instagram feed.

Her best friend meant well, she knows, and Sansa loves her for it but, well, the truth is that Sansa had pretty much given up with love after her disastrous dating life. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in love anymore. She did — fervently, in fact. She believed in it the way people believed in constellations, even when the stars didn’t align. It was just that love, as she’d experienced it, had been more like cosmic debris — messy, fleeting, and always burning out before she could hold onto it.

She thought of Joffrey first, because it was inevitable. Firsts always carved the deepest marks, even the ugly ones you tried to sand down with time and distance. He was the kind of boy who looked like a prince from the outside: golden hair, sharp cheekbones, and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He had the effortless charm of someone who’d never been told o in his life, and little, stupid Sansa, naive and hungry for a fairytale, had mistaken arrogance for confidence. With Joffrey, it started with flattery and ended with humiliation. She hated herself for that — not for falling for him, but for trying so hard to be what he wanted. 

Willas had been different. A balm after the burn. Nice, thoughtful, and easy. He sent her books instead of flowers, notes tucked between pages with soft, scribbled thoughts in the margins. Their relationship was quieter, built on shared silences and gentle understanding rather than fireworks and grand gestures. But maybe that was the problem. It felt too comfortable, like slipping into a cosy sweater — not thrilling, not heart-stopping. She’d wanted to love him the way she thought she should, the way that he deserved, but her heart had been stubborn, indifferent. And in the end, it was she who broke his heart. 

And then there’d been Harry. Harry with his perfect teeth and his too-bright laugh, the kind that sounded like he was performing for an invisible audience. He adored expensive things — expensive wine, expensive watches, expensive people. She was one of those people, though it took her longer than she liked to admit to realise it. Harry liked the idea of Sansa Stark more than he liked her. He favoured her name, her family, and the way she looked on his arm like a well-chosen accessory. Urgh, another disaster. 

So she’d sworn off dating. She might believe in true, pure love but love wasn’t fashioned for girls like her. She focused on her studies, her friends, and the reliable comfort of routine. Until Margaery — relentless, persuasive Margaery — had worn her down with champagne brunch pep talks and relentless optimism. “Darling, you can’t give up just because you’ve met a few frogs,” she’d said as if Sansa’s dating history was a quirky montage in a rom-com instead of a series of catastrophic letdowns. 

The door behind her chimed, breaking Sansa out of her thoughts. She glanced up instinctively. And that’s when everything started to unravel.

Jon Snow wasn’t what you’d call punctual — she’d known that much from years of half-hearted small talk at family gatherings. He wasn’t polished either. No cufflinks. No pressed suit. Just a plain black leather jacket that somehow made him look like he’d rolled out of bed and still managed to seem. . . annoyingly attractive. His dark curls were messy in that deliberate, careless way that shouldn’t have worked, and his expression was a mix of mild confusion and thinly veiled regret as he scanned the restaurant.

For one horrible, brain-short-circuiting second, she thought: No way. No, it can’t be. And yet, here he came like a White Walker at a summer festival. 

Jon approached the table like he was bracing for impact, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his brow furrowed in that permanently brooding way that made people mistake him for being deep when really, he was just chronically awkward.

Sansa felt her heart dip somewhere between her ribs, not in that breathless, swooning way her other friend Mya always gushed about, but more like the hollow thud of disappointment. She blinked, half-expecting him to veer off toward another table, maybe offer one of those tight-lipped nods if their eyes happened to meet. But no. He was coming straight for her, every step confirming what her gut already knew.

Jon Snow.

Robb’s best friend. The perpetual shadow at family gatherings, always lingering at the edges with his surly silences and too-long pauses, as if words were a precious resource he couldn’t afford to waste. She didn’t hate him. Sansa was too much of a lady for that and besides that would’ve required too much effort. But she certainly hadn’t been fond of him either. He was the boy who’d once called her “a little brat with a princess complex” when she was twelve years old.

She remembered that moment with vivid, humiliating clarity. She’d been wearing a pale blue dress with little pearl buttons, her hair in soft curls, and she’d been so sure she looked sophisticated, grown-up even. Like a proper woman like her mother. Jon Snow had been there with Robb, older, cooler in that indifferent teenage way she’d envied at that age; she’d tried to impress them with something clever. She didn’t even remember what she said — probably some precocious observation about politics or literature — but Jon had muttered that line under his breath, not even bothering to look at her.

A brat with a princess complex.

The words had lodged themselves in her chest like a splinter she couldn’t pull out. She’d scowled at him at the time, chin high, cheeks burning, acting like it didn’t bother her but it had stung. Worse than if he’d been outright mean. Because it wasn’t cruelty — it was dismissal. Like she wasn’t even worth the effort of proper disdain. He’d always preferred Arya anyway. Arya didn’t care about looking put together or saying the right thing. She climbed trees in her good shoes and came to dinner with scraped knees, and somehow that made her charming instead of embarrassing. People found it endearing. Quirky, even. If Sansa did the same, she’d just be undisciplined.

But thankfully she wasn’t twelve anymore.

Somewhere along the way, Sansa had stopped measuring herself against Arya’s wildness. She’d grown to admire it, even. There was something freeing about her sister’s refusal to fit into anyone’s expectations. 

Sansa pushed away the thought of her sister as she watched Jon approach. She noted the scuffed boots, the faint scruff along his jaw, and the way he shoved his hands in his pockets like he was just so over this already. Which was rich, considering she was the one being set up with him. 

His signature scowl was firmly in place as if he’d just been told he had to attend a team-building seminar. She sat up straighter, plastering on the kind of polite, indifferent smile she reserved for acquaintances she didn’t particularly like but couldn’t openly ignore.

He hesitated when he reached her table, rocking slightly on his heels. “Uh. Sansa.”

“Jonathan,” she replied, arching a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

Let it henceforth be known that Margaery Tyrell is dead to me, Sansa thought. He glanced around, clearly uncomfortable. Good. He should be.

Jon cleared his throat. “Mind if I—?”

“Be my guest,” she said sweetly.

Jon sat down, shrugged off his jacket, and revealed a T-shirt with a faded Direwolves band logo. Fantastic, she thought. I’m on a date with the human embodiment of ‘I don’t believe in ironing.’ For a moment, Jon fidgeted with the sleeves of his shirt, the very picture of someone who wanted to be anywhere else. Then they began to exchange the kind of small talk that felt like chewing cardboard. Weather. Traffic. How weird it was that they’d run into each other like this.

Except. . . 

Wait.

“Hold on,” Sansa said suddenly, leaning forward with a squint like she was examining an ancient artefact. “Who set you up on this date?”

Jon blinked. “Uh, Satin.”

She almost choked on her overpriced sparkling water. “Satin? As in Satin Flowers?”

“Yeah. He said—” Jon trailed off, frowning. “I was one train ride away from becoming a lonely old hermit in the Vale mountains. Wait. Who set you up?”

“Margaery.”

They stared at each other.

“Oh my Gods,” Sansa whispered, equal parts horror and relief washing over her. “This is a mix-up.”

Jon exhaled sharply, running a hand through his curls. “Thank the Gods. I thought Satin had completely lost it.”

Sansa stared at Jon. She’d thought the night couldn’t get worse, but apparently, the universe had a dark sense of humour. Plus, her scheduled date still hadn’t arrived. 

“Well,” she muttered, grabbing her clutch from the table with every intention of leaving. “This has been delightful. Truly. But I think I’ll just. . .” She’d done her part, shown up, endured the cosmic joke, and now she could go home, scrub off the evening like a bad dream, and possibly murder Margaery with nothing but the sheer force of her glare.

“Yeah,” Jon echoed, looking equally ready to vanish into the floor. He reached for his water glass, missing the coaster entirely because that’s just who he was. Jon, to his credit, didn’t argue. He made no move to stop her. Of course he wouldn’t. He’d probably rather die than sit through another ten minutes of forced small talk with her.

She had just reached for her coat when she heard it. That voice. That deeply, profoundly irritating voice.

“Little dove.”

Sansa froze. No. No, no, no.

Jon, still seated, glanced up at her sharply, reading her expression instantly. There, standing near the entrance, looking just as smug as she remembered, was Harry. Looking polished and overly pleased with himself, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than most people’s rent. The perfectly coiffed hair. The Rolex gleamed on his wrist. The faint smirk on his lips was like he already knew what she was thinking.

Sansa swallowed the urge to roll her eyes. As if the night couldn’t get worse. She had previously thought him handsome, once thought that blinding confidence was charming rather than obnoxious. But now, all she felt was exhaustion. And, worse, the creeping dread of whatever smug comment he was about to make. He was already walking over. Next to his side was a tall girl who had Sansa feeling self-conscious. 

The tall girl beside him was stunning, the kind of beauty that made Sansa acutely aware of every flaw she’d ever convinced herself she had. Sleek, black hair, sharp cheekbones, and a silky dress. Sansa straightened instinctively, the old reflex kicking in like muscle memory. Chin up, shoulders back, polite smile at the ready — a social armour forged through years of high society dinners and the expectation of perfection. 

“Harry,” she said as if her pulse hadn’t just tripled. As if seeing him didn’t make her skin itch with the memory of all the ways he’d made her feel like a beautifully wrapped package.

“Sansa, sweetie,” he replied, his grin widening. 

“What an unexpected delight.” Sansa’s words tasted like vinegar.

“Isn’t it just? Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

“Well, life’s full of little disappointments, isn’t it?”

Harry’s eyes flicked to Jon, clearly sizing him up in a heartbeat. He smugly tilted his head. “Out with friends, eh? And who’s this?” Harry asked, gesturing vaguely toward Jon like he was pointing out a piece of furniture that didn’t quite match the décor. 

Jon opened his mouth, probably to introduce himself, but before he could get a word out, Harry’s girlfriend spoke. Sansa could tell she’d been waiting for Harry to introduce her. 

“I’m Ellyn, by the way,” she said, her voice smooth and cool, like poured cream. She didn’t extend her hand, didn’t lean in. 

“Charmed,” said Sansa.

Harry’s grin widened, sensing blood in the water. “We were just talking about you the other day, actually,” he said, flicking an invisible speck of lint from his sleeve. “Weren’t we, darling?”

Ellyn nodded, tilting her head slightly, a picture of faux sweetness. “Oh, yes. Harry told me you used to date. So cute.”

Sansa’s smile tightened, sharp enough to draw blood. She could practically hear the unspoken footnote: the ex. Jon shifted in his seat, the faintest snort escaping him before he coughed to cover it. Sansa didn’t glance at him. She didn’t need to. His presence was suddenly like a stubborn draft in an old house — annoying, ever-present, but somehow comforting in the worst possible way.

“Oh, was it cute?” she mused, tilting her head just slightly as if the thought amused her. “I’m surprised you remember, Harry. You never were great with details.”

His smile faltered for a fraction of a second, just a flicker, but Sansa caught it. She savoured it.

Ellyn’s expression was perfectly measured. “You know, I told Harry I just had to meet you,” she said with a little laugh, the kind that wasn’t quite warm enough to be genuine. “You’re practically famous. I mean, your family is everywhere. Your brother’s all over the news, and I swear, I see your mother at every charity gala.”

“Famous is such a relative term, isn’t it?” Sansa replied lightly, her voice dipped in honey, smooth and practised. “I’m sure plenty of people have never heard of me. Just like some people are. . . well, forgettable things.”

She let the words hang in the air, delicate but pointed, like glass ornaments balanced on the edge of a shelf. She saw Harry’s jaw tighten, just for a second. Ellyn didn’t miss a beat, though. 

“Oh, I doubt that. You Starks are practically royalty. Old money, impeccable taste. . .” Her eyes flicked briefly to Jon, a hint of condescension slipping through the otherwise polished facade. “Although I must say, you keep such, uh. . . interesting company.”

Sansa felt something flicker then, a small pulse of protective irritation that surprised her. Jon Snow was many things — awkward, perpetually dishevelled, emotionally constipated — but he wasn’t forgettable. And he certainly didn’t deserve to be dismissed like some afterthought, especially not by these two. 

Sure Jon didn’t belong in their world. He never had. He wasn’t born into privilege, didn’t understand the rules of their gilded cage, and, worst of all, he didn’t care to. He never tried to fit in. He never pretended to be something he wasn’t, never curried favour or played polite for the sake of optics. And maybe that’s why he’d always unsettled her. Because he saw through it all. Because she had spent so much of her life perfecting the art of being liked, of being admired, and Jon Snow had never once looked at her like she was anything special.

And yet, at this moment, something in her rebelled at the idea of him being dismissed as anything less than he was. 

“Well,” Sansa said, her tone air-light, “interesting company is far more entertaining than predictable company, don’t you think? It keeps life from getting. . . stale.”

Harry’s smile shifted. “Oh, absolutely,” he said smoothly. “You’ve always had a talent for collecting people, Sansa. Friends, boyfriends — doesn’t really matter, does it? As long as they make you feel like you’re the heroine of your own little story. But the funny thing about fairytales is. . .” He paused. “Everyone eventually realises the princess isn’t the one who makes it interesting. She’s just there to be looked at.”

The words slid into her like a blade wrapped in velvet — enough to leave her breathless underneath. Just there to be looked at. It was the kind of cruelty Harry excelled at — disguised as an offhand remark, delivered with the effortless charm of someone who knew exactly where the bruises were. And it landed because he wasn’t wrong, not entirely. Once upon a time, she had believed in fairytales. In golden princes and happily-ever-afters. She’d believed being beautiful and perfect would be enough.

But she wasn’t that girl anymore. Life wasn’t a fairytale and princes didn’t exist in this day and age. 

Maybe it was the way Harry was looking at her, smug and condescending like he still thought he mattered. Or maybe it was the faint flush of embarrassment creeping up Sansa’s neck, that flicker of vulnerability she was trying so hard to drown beneath perfect poise. Whatever it was, before she could summon the words to tear Harry apart, Jon’s voice cut through  — low, steady, and unshaken.

“Actually,” he said, with none of the awkward hesitation she'd come to expect from Jon Snow. “I’m Sansa’s boyfriend.” 

Her brain stalled like a record scratched mid-song. She turned her head slowly, her jaw tightening as she met Jon’s infuriatingly calm expression. His dark eyes were unreadable, a faint quirk at the corner of his mouth like he was suppressing a grin. The sheer audacity of him. Sansa Stark had been many things in her life — patient, poised, polite — but she was finding it very hard to be any of those things. She was going to murder Jon Snow. I will murder him and get acquitted by the jury, she thought darkly. 

“Oh?” Harry’s smile was tight now like he’d tasted something sour. “Boyfriend?”

Jon didn’t even blink. “Yes,” he said, his voice so casual, so unaffected, that Sansa wanted to throw her overpriced sparkling water right in his face. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while now. We’re madly in love, what can I tell you?”

Ellyn leaned in slightly, her perfectly manicured nails resting delicately on Harry’s arm. “Oh, I would’ve never guessed. You two just seem so. . . different.”

“I didn’t think he’d be your type, little dove,” said Harry with a frown. 

Jon narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table with an ease that made Sansa’s pulse spike. His expression shifted, the faint trace of a smirk dissolving into something harder, darker. 

“Guess you didn’t know her as well as you thought, sorry, Halys, was it?” Jon’s voice was low almost a growl. “Her type’s changed. She dates men now.”

Sansa blinked. Once. Twice. Harry’s smirk vanished so fast it was almost comical. He stiffened, his jaw ticking, a flicker of something ugly flashing across his perfectly curated features. Ellyn, sensing the shift, tilted her head, her glossy lips parting just slightly, the way someone might when they were debating whether or not to intervene in a street fight.

Harry let out a forced chuckle, low and humourless. “Right. Well,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks. “This has been rather. . . illuminating.” He turned to Sansa, that condescending lilt back in his voice. “I guess I overestimated your tastes, little dove.”

Sansa’s spine straightened. She refused to let him see how much that got under her skin and didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. 

“Yeah?” Jon mused, tilting his head. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about yours, Halys.”

Harry bristled and hissed, “It’s Harry, you dolt!” 

Ellyn — bless her cold, soulless heart — seemed to sense that this was no longer fun. She tugged at Harry’s arm, rolling her eyes. “Come, my sweet,” she said, her voice dripping with exaggerated boredom. “We have an actual dinner reservation.”

Harry hesitated for a second, his gaze flicking between Jon and Sansa as if debating whether or not to get the last word in. But whatever he saw on Jon’s face made him think better of it. Without another word, he turned and strode off, Ellyn trailing after him, her heels clicking against the polished floors.

The moment they were gone, Sansa exhaled through her nose and turned, slowly, to face the second man who had just singlehandedly ruined her entire evening.

“What,” she said, her voice deadly calm, “was that?”

Jon shrugged. “Seemed like you needed some help.”

“Oh, help? That was help?” Sansa hissed. “You just told my unbearable ex that we’re dating.”

“Fake dating,” Jon corrected. “Big difference.”

“Oh, is it? Because it sure felt like real mortification.”

“He was being a prick.”

“He’s always a prick,” Sansa snapped. “That doesn’t mean I needed you to—” She gestured wildly at the space where Harry had just stood. “To defend my honour or whatever that was.”

Jon leaned in slightly, resting his chin on his fist like this was all terribly amusing to him. “You didn’t seem to mind too much when I called you my girlfriend.”

Sansa sputtered. “I — you — are you actually insane?”

“Only a little.”

“You’re insufferable.” She scoffed, crossing her arms. “I suppose congratulations are in order. You’ve successfully turned my already miserable evening into a public spectacle.”

Jon tilted his head. “I’d say you’re welcome, but I get the sense you’re not the type to be grateful.”

Her lips parted in disbelief. “Grateful? Grateful ?” She let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “You lied, Jon.”

“I improvised. It’s not like you were handling it well on your own.”

“I was doing fine.”

“Aye, if you say so.” 

Sansa stared at him, mouth slightly agape, her indignation fizzing like a shaken can of ale. She exhaled sharply through her nose. “You know what? Fine. Whatever this was,” she waved her hand dismissively between them, “it’s over. Done. I’m going home, and we’re never speaking of this again.”

“Works for me,” Jon replied. 

She snatched her clutch from the table with more force than necessary. Standing abruptly, she smoothed down her skirt, squared her shoulders, and fixed him with one last withering look. “Enjoy your evening, boyfriend,” she snapped.

Jon grinned. “You too.”

Sansa turned on her heel before she did something unthinkable — like throw her water at him, or worse, laugh. She didn’t look back.

That should’ve been the end of it. And for a while it was. Days went by. Three, to be exact. Seventy-two blissful hours. She’d done what any mature, emotionally well-adjusted young adult would do: pretended it never happened. But the universe had other plans. 

It started with a text from Margaery. Sansa stared at the screen, blinking in confusion. She was in the middle of her perfectly ordinary morning, sipping her overpriced oat milk latte when her phone detonated with that emotional hand grenade. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. She typed: What are you talking about? Then deleted it. Typed: Excuse me? Deleted that, too. Finally settled on: No.

Margaery’s reply came instantly as if she’d been waiting — lurking — ready to pounce.

Margaery: don’t be coy darling. i saw the photos. how long has this been going on?! 😍

Sansa nearly choked on her latte. Photos? What photos? With mounting dread, she opened Twitter. There it was: a candid photo from the restaurant. She and Jon, mid-bickering, leaning toward each other with expressions that could generously be described as intense. But the angle — the godsdamn angle — made it look like they were sharing some private, heated moment, all tension and unspoken longing, instead of what it actually was: Jon being infuriating and Sansa resisting the urge to launch a glass at his head.

@GossipsOfTheNorth: Winter’s heating up. . . Sansa Stark turning heads in Winterstown City, but it’s not just her impeccable style catching attention. ❄️👀 Who’s the mystery suitor she was seen sharing a swoon-worthy moment with over dinner? Sources say they’re ‘madly in love’ and have been for a while — thoughts? 👀❄️🔥

Her phone vibrated in her hand again.

Margaery: sans. my love. my dearest heart. why were you keeping this from me???

Sansa exhaled through her nose, refusing to fling her phone across the room. There was nothing to tell, she wanted to scream. It was an accident, a mix-up, a moment of absolute catastrophe that she was supposed to have left behind. Sansa wanted to die — or, at the very least, move to Essos. Braavos had lovely weather all year round, so maybe that could be her calling place. 

Wait. A statement. That was the logical thing to do, wasn’t it? Clean, concise, professional. Something like: ‘Sansa Stark would like to clarify that the recent photos circulating on social media are being misinterpreted. The individual in question is a family acquaintance, and there is absolutely no romantic relationship to confirm.’ Simple. Direct. No room for gossip to fester.

Margaery: darling stop ignoring me. we need to strategies

Her phone buzzed but it wasn’t her best friend this time. 

Theon: YOOOO. YOU. AND JONATHAN. SNOW. I’M ACTUALLY CRYING. 

showed robb. he said nothing. just stared at his phone like he was tryna summon the old gods. FUCKING ICONIC.

The next blow from her notifications came from an unexpected source.

Subject: Clarification Needed Regarding Recent Media Coverage

From: Lysa Arryn {[email protected]}

To: Sansa Stark {[email protected]}

Dear Sansa,

I’ve been made aware of certain images and media coverage from your recent outing that are now circulating. This matter requires our immediate attention, as it directly pertains to the family’s public image and reputation.

It is imperative that you respond without delay so we can discuss the most appropriate course of action. We must act swiftly and with discretion to mitigate any potential impact.

Awaiting your prompt response.

Best,

Aunt Lysa

Lysa Arryn. The woman who once held a family intervention because Robb got a tattoo. This was no longer a fleeting rumour; this was an incident. Sansa groaned, letting her head fall back against the plush sofa. This was, without a doubt, a nightmare. An actual, living, breathing, headline-making nightmare. Like one from Winter Weekly, the kind of gossip rag she usually ignored — except now her face was plastered right beneath the headline. Sansa sat up as her fingers scrolled through the article. 

EXCLUSIVE: Ellyn Tells All — Sansa Stark’s Surprising Relationship and What It’s Really Like Dating an Ex’s Ex. 

[written by Myranda Royce]

Sansa’s heart plummeted. She peered at the article with morbid curiosity, her eyes skimming the text faster than her brain could process it:

If there’s one thing Ellyn Waters knows how to do, it’s stay unbothered.

Or at least, that’s the image she projects as she sits across from me at Lys + Co., her favourite brunch spot. Dressed in an effortlessly chic cream blazer (no doubt custom), with sleek sunglasses perched atop her perfectly waved hair, she’s the picture of modern elegance — like she’s been styled by the gods themselves, or at least by someone with an unlimited credit line.

As we finish our brunch, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow over Lys + Co.’s minimalist interiors, I ask her one final question, one that’s been lingering:

Does it bother her? Seeing Sansa Stark. 

“I don’t really do drama,” Ellyn says with a casual shrug. “I’m way too busy for that. I mean, between my brand partnerships, content shoots, and, you know, living my best life — there’s just no room.”

Still, she’s here. And we’re talking. About Sansa Stark. About that photo, which is all anyone who’s anyone is talking about lately.

“I mean, I was surprised too,” Ellyn said with a musical laugh. “I always thought Sansa was more. . . refined in her tastes. But hey, love’s unpredictable, right?”

When asked about Jon Snow, Ellyn described him as “rugged” and “the type who probably enjoys hiking or brooding in dark corners.”

“Honestly,” she added with a perfectly timed sip of her artisanal matcha latte, “ it’s kind of cute. Like when a socialite adopts a stray dog. There’s charm in the novelty. I mean, I get it. Opposites attract. Look at it this way, I’m the type to love an elegant dinner in Lys, whereas Sansa’s guy’s whole vibe is probably more. . . dive bar in Flea Bottom. But if Sansa’s into, you know, the gritty, broody type, I say live your truth, babe.”

She gave a little laugh, effortlessly breezy, before pivoting seamlessly because Ellyn knows how to keep herself front and centre.

“I just hope she’s happy at the end of the day. That’s what matters, right? Finding what works for you. Like relationships and skincare. I’m thriving. Harry and I are great and at a really good point in our lives. Speaking of which: have you tried the Ellynssentials ‘Glow Beyond’ serum? It’s literally the only thing keeping me sane with all the stress from, you know. . .” She waves her perfectly manicured hand vaguely. “Paparazzi, interviews, exes — it’s a lot.”

It’s a masterclass in diplomacy, the kind of subtle shade that barely registers unless you’re paying attention. But that’s Ellyn for you: beautiful, sophisticated, and always in control. 

As we wrap up, she reaches into her designer tote and pulls out a sleek bottle of her latest product.

“You have to try this,” Ellyn gushes, handing it to me like it’s a sacred relic. “It’s the new Ellynssentials ‘Radiance Reset’ mist. Perfect for when life gets a little. . . chaotic.”

And just like that, she’s gone — leaving behind the faint scent of Lysian bergamot and the undeniable impression that she’s exactly where she’s meant to be: at the top. Because in Ellyn Waters’ world, the glow is always effortless and the spotlight is always hers.

The Sansa-Ellyn-Harry Timeline: A Refresher

Sansa & Harry: Dated for nearly two years, often seen at high-profile events, charity galas, and art shows. The breakup? Quiet but icy.

Harry & Ellyn: Confirmed as a couple six months later, debuting their relationship on Ellyn’s Instagram with a caption that simply read: “Timing is everything.”

Sansa & Mystery Man: First spotted together in a candid photo in a restaurant — no captions, no PR spin, just Sansa smiling at someone who wasn’t posing for the camera.

This article originally appeared in The Westerosi Journal. For more exclusive features, follow Myranda Royce on all socials @MyrandaWrites.

More Stories You Might Like:

🔗 ‘Winter’s Coming. . . for Your Faves: Sansa Stark’s Style Evolution From Debutante to That Girl’

red hair, sharp wit, and even sharper comebacks — inside sansa’s transformation from society sweetheart to headline queen.

🍇 ‘Margaery Tyrell’s Wine Preferences Ranked by How Fast They’d Start Drama at Brunch’

turns out, rosé really is her weapon of choice.

🔥 ‘Renly Baratheon’s Closet Is Nicer Than Your Entire Apartment: A Look Inside’

 caped. polished. dramatic. just like his political career.

📖 ‘ Samwell Tarly’s Book Recommendations That Will Emotionally Ruin You (In a Good Way)’

because word on the street is that sometimes you need historical trauma to feel alive

Business Spotlight: ‘The Lannister Financial Dynasty — Rebuilding an Empire’

After years of fluctuating fortunes, Casterly Holdings, the Lannister conglomerate, is making a strategic comeback. Led by Tywin Lannister, the company has diversified its investments beyond mining and real estate, delving into emerging tech, luxury goods, and international banking.

Recent mergers with Essosi financial institutions hint at a broader strategy: consolidating global influence while subtly reasserting the Lannister name at the forefront of Westerosi commerce. Industry insiders suggest this could lead to a monopoly in key sectors, raising concerns over market fairness.

And Finally, a Word from the Comments Section:

“She’s unbothered but did a whole interview about it? Okay, queen.”

“imagine being compared to a stray dog and still looking hotter than your ex.”

“But like fr where can I get that matcha latte though?”

Sansa stared at the screen, the words blurring slightly as the edges of her vision prickled with irritation. Fuck Ellyn. And fuck Harry too.  

Her phone buzzed in her hand. She groaned, reaching for it without even looking. It was probably Theon again, ready to stoke the flames of chaos.

But it wasn’t Theon.

It wasn’t Margaery, either.

Or her Aunt Lysa.

Robb: are you fr serious? this isn’t fucking funny.

With a deep, steadying breath, she grabbed her phone, scrolled through her contacts, and pressed the green call symbol.

It rang.

And rang.

And—

“Hello?”

She hadn’t been prepared for the sound of his voice. Rough, low, slightly hoarse, like he’d just woken up.

“Jon,” she said, as steady as she could manage.

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“Sansa.”

“We need to talk.”

Another pause. Then, sounding vaguely resigned, “Aye. I figured.”

Chapter Text

Jon had survived his share of horrors — awkward small talk, rush hour on the train, and Theon Greyjoy’s never-ending Snapchat saga. But nothing, nothing, had prepared him for the waking nightmare of pretending to be Sansa’s boyfriend in front of Lysa Arryn. Ever since a tabloid ran that viral photo of the two of them together Lysa had been in a frenzy. As the self-appointed guardian of the Stark family image, she’d demanded a meeting to ‘assess the situation.’ 

Sansa led him through the hallway without speaking, her heels clicking softly, her back straight, and her movements precise. She looked like she was walking into a boardroom, which told him everything he needed to know about how this was going to go. She hadn’t wanted to bring him here. She had been backed into a corner, and now he was the unfortunate bastard caught in the crossfire of whatever chaos had landed them in this mess.

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” Sansa murmured under her breath without turning to look at him. 

Jon’s jacket felt wrong and too synthetic; he was certain his hair looked messier than normal as if to spite him.

Jon scowled. “Yeah, well. Can’t imagine why.”

“Relax,” she said, though her voice was taut. “Just smile. Say as little as possible. And don’t — don’t — mention anything about your motorcycle. Or your leather jacket.”

Jon blinked. “I don’t even know how that would come up.”

“It won’t. Because you won’t let it.”

She pushed open a far too elaborate set of doors, leading him into what could only be described as the kind of sitting room that existed purely for show. A fireplace big enough to roast a whole pig flickered against dark mahogany shelves, casting flickering shadows over the rows of books too pristine to have ever been read. The furniture was all deep blue velvet and antique brass. 

And waiting for them, perched on the edge of one of those intimidatingly expensive armchairs, was Lysa Arryn. She wore deep sapphire, the colour of the Vale’s banners, her jewellery tasteful but unmistakably expensive. Jon had met her once, years ago. He barely remembered the details — just that she’d looked at him like he was something scraped off the bottom of her shoe, and he’d spent the next forty minutes regretting every decision that had led him into her presence.

Now, she regarded him the same way, sharp eyes flicking over his entire existence in a matter of seconds and finding it lacking. He wondered how much she knew about him. If she was the type to do research, to keep files on people, to know that Jon Snow wasn’t even really a Snow, that he was just some kid from the wrong side of the tracks who’d stumbled into the life of a Stark and stuck around.

“Sansa, dear, it’s good to see you,” she said first, cool and clipped, but her gaze never left Jon. “And you must be Jonathan.”

Jon barely resisted the urge to wince. “Just Jon.”

A single arched brow. “I see.”

Sansa sat down smoothly, legs crossing in a way that Jon tried very hard not to notice but his brain, traitorous as ever, logged it anyway. She gestured vaguely toward the seat beside her, which he took.

“What is it exactly that you do, Jonathan?”

“I’m. . . applying to grad school,” he said, trying not to sound like he was apologising for it. “And I bartend. On weekends.”

A pause. The kind that felt like a crack in the Earth. Lysa’s smile twitched at the edges. “Ah. How. . . enterprising.”

“Jon also volunteers at a literacy program for kids,” Sansa added smoothly. “He’s really good with them.”

That wasn’t a lie. Jon had helped out once when Gilly was short on tutors. Still, the compliment landed like a lifeline, and he glanced at her gratefully. Sansa didn’t meet his eyes.

Lysa’s fingers drummed against the armrest. “I suppose you know why you’re here.”

Jon didn’t, actually. He had a vague idea that this was about the article, about the photo, about the absolute disaster that had unravelled after his offhanded attempt to get Harry to fuck off. But he also had a sinking feeling this was about more than just gossip columns. This was about image and reputation and that bullshit. About the Stark name and what it meant to be attached to it, even in rumour. Jon wasn’t stupid. He knew he didn’t fit into this world. He was here on borrowed time, a misplaced pawn. He sat stiffly, his hands clasped together to keep from fidgeting. He could feel Lysa’s gaze on him like a laser, dissecting him cell by cell.

“This situation is. . . unfortunate,” said Lysa. “This isn’t the kind of attention we typically invite, Sansa.”

Sansa’s expression didn’t falter. “It’s just gossip.”

Lysa’s eyes flicked to Jon. “Gossip is currency. I assume you understand what this means, Jonathan.”

Jon forced himself to sit back, to ease into his own skin. He knew how this worked. If he looked uncomfortable, she won. If he flinched or cracked, it confirmed every suspicion she had about him. Instead, he raised a brow, casually. 

“That I should’ve worn a better jacket?”

Sansa made a noise that was almost a laugh, quickly smothered by a sip of water from the glass beside her. It was a nice laugh, soft and musical and so very Sansa-like that he wished to hear it again. Lysa, however, didn’t even twitch. She wasn’t the type to be thrown by humour, but Jon hadn’t expected her to be.

“This isn’t a joking matter,” she said smoothly.

Jon’s smirk faded. “No. It’s not. Look, I’m with Sansa because I want to be, okay? She’s brilliant,” he continued like it was just a fact. “Sharp as hell, smarter than people give her credit for. I’d be an idiot not to want to be with her.”

He felt Sansa’s head snap to him, sharp as a knife. Something in her face — soft, startled, almost vulnerable — made his throat go dry. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her anymore. His heart was thumping rapidly and he prayed they couldn’t hear it. They were meant to fake it so Jon went full-steam ahead. The words came easy, maybe because there was no lie in them. Just a repurposed truth, twisted into something useful. He kept his expression neutral, casual, like none of it really mattered to him. 

Lysa leaned forward just slightly, elbows resting on her knees. “Yes, I’m sure that’s all well and good but do you have any idea what it means to be attached to this family?”

Jon bristled at the word. Attached. It sounded like something temporary, a leech or an inconvenience.

Sansa was the one who answered. “Aunt Lysa, it’s hardly the first time a Stark has had a public relationship.”

Lysa’s expression was unimpressed. “Yes, but those relationships were chosen.” Her gaze flicked back to Jon. “This was an accident.”

Jon didn’t have a response to that. Because she wasn’t wrong. When they’d agreed to fake this relationship, they were both doing it for their own benefit. Sansa needed to keep Harry at bay, to send a clear message that she’d moved on and didn’t need him anymore. Jon, however, needed stability. A foothold. Something that looked like a future, which is why he’d agreed to a fake relationship.

He was trying to get into a competitive grad program — the kind that led to actual jobs, not just unpaid internships and lectures from tenured professors who wouldn’t remember his name. But every time he hit ‘submit,’ there was a sinking feeling in his chest. He didn’t have the pedigree. The family name. The right kind of network. He’d gotten this far on grit and grades, but grit didn’t show up on paper, and grades didn’t open doors on their own. 

Being with Sansa — even in a made-up, blink-and-it’s-gone kind of way — helped both of them. It made him look like someone who already belonged in the world he was trying to reach. And maybe that was cheating, a little. But he wasn’t using her. He wasn’t faking affection or feeding off her name for fun. He was just trying to find a way forward in a system that had never been built with him in mind. Her story stayed untouchable and his looked a little more believable. She gave him credibility. He gave her freedom.

“You’re in the public eye now,” said Lysa. “Even if this fades, people are watching.”

Jon’s jaw tightened. “I don’t care what people think of me,” he said.

Lysa’s lips curved slightly. “That’s because it’s never mattered before.” He said nothing, and she sat back, folding her hands in her lap. “I trust you’ll be discreet,” she said after a long pause. “We don’t want any more scandals.” 

Fat chance, Jon thought. Their fake break to their fake relationship was inevitable. Jon felt the shift in the air between him and Sansa. The significance of the lie they were both carrying. The inevitability of it shattering. He wondered if she was already picturing the fallout, the way it would play out in hushed conversations at charity galas and high-end cocktail parties. The Starks were a name, a legacy. He was an afterthought, a mere footnote in a scandal that hadn’t even fully played out yet.

Sansa nodded softly. “Of course.”

Lysa gave them both another once-over before standing. “Then I suppose we have nothing more to discuss. One more thing. Do your parents know?” she asked, voice mild, but there was something expectant beneath it.

Jon tensed, but Sansa didn’t so much as blink. “They do,” she said smoothly. “There’s a dinner tonight.”

Jon felt something in his chest clench slightly. He already knew. He had received the email — an email, for fuck’s sake, as if this was a business meeting. He had opened it when he was cooking in his shared flat and stared at the formal wording, the time, and the location didn’t need to be stated because, of course, it was at the Stark estate. Then he’d locked his phone and spent the rest of his shift pretending he hadn’t seen it.

Just before Lysa turned away, she looked at him one last time. “You should at least invest in a better jacket,” she said, almost offhanded. “You’ll be photographed again.”

When they left the room, Jon let out a breath and turned to Sansa. “That went well.”

Sansa’s mouth twitched. “She didn’t have you thrown out.”

“High bar.”

He still wasn’t entirely sure why he had agreed to this. Maybe it had been an impulse, some misplaced instinct to throw himself in front of a situation just to see if he could survive it. He wasn’t a stranger to covering for people, to stepping in where he wasn’t necessarily wanted but where someone had needed him anyway.

But Sansa Stark didn’t need him.

She wasn’t like Theon, who made a mess of things and needed someone to fish him out. She wasn’t like Robb, who could command a room but sometimes missed what was happening at the edges of it. She wasn’t like anyone Jon had ever covered for because she wasn’t helpless.

She was standing there now, in her perfect way, already thinking five steps ahead. She would have handled Harry and Ellyn on her own or made some cutting remark and done what she always did — kept her head high and carried on like a lady.

But when he had pretended to be her boyfriend, she had let him. That was the thing that stuck with him. She had let him. Jon had spent so much of his life feeling like he was forcing himself into spaces he didn’t belong in. And now, here he was, sitting in the centre of a lie of his own making. He had done this. He had chosen this. And maybe that was the part that bothered him most. Because now he had to wonder why. A part of him wanted to blame it on the setting, the way Harry had looked at her, the smug curl of Ellyn’s mouth, or the sheer irritation of the whole thing. But it hadn’t just been that. He could admit it now, if only to himself.

It had been Sansa.

The way she had tensed, the way her eyes had flicked toward him for half a second, calculating and uncertain. Sansa Stark didn’t do uncertain. She was deliberate in everything she did, in every move she made. And at that moment, she needed something. Maybe she hadn’t needed him, specifically. Maybe anyone else would have worked.

But he had been the one there.

And he had wanted to be.

Jon pushed the thought down before it could settle, rolling his shoulders like that would shake it loose. It didn’t matter. None of this was real.

The Stark house was too big.

Jon had seen it before — white-bricked, old-moneyed, set behind wrought iron gates like something out of a film. But stepping inside was something else. It smelled expensive. Not in the sterile way of high-end stores, but in the lived-in way of wealth that had nothing to prove. So different to the one-bedroomed flat he shared with his single mother growing up or the shared flat he currently rented in a dodgy neighbourhood with his best friend Sam. 

Jon breathed in deeply. A faint and floral scent lingered in the air, like an expensive candle that smelt like it belonged in a catalogue rather than a home. It mixed with the crisp bite of air seeping in through the high windows and the warmth of something baking, though Jon doubted anyone in this house actually used the kitchen. Someone probably lit a cinnamon-scented candle and called it ambience.

Jon had been here before, but never like this. Never as an imposter. He’d passed through as a shadow at Robb’s side, the quiet best friend tagging along during summer breaks and long weekends, never lingering long enough to leave an impression. He’d eaten in the vast dining room where chandeliers dripped with light and Sansa sat poised, always so composed even as a teenager, like she’d known she was being watched. He’d slouched on the leather couch in the den while Arya heckled him over video games, barely registering that the furniture probably cost more than his entire rent.

Right now, he was walking into enemy territory with no armour, no exit strategy, and a rapidly thinning excuse for being there at all. His boots felt too loud. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, resisting the urge to fidget, to roll his shoulders and loosen the tension curling up his spine. 

In the times he’d visited in the past, he had been an outsider in a way that didn’t matter. Robb’s plus-one. A kid who wasn’t important enough to be noticed. This time was different. This time, they were looking at him. It was stupid really. None of this was new. He had been in this house countless times, sat at their dining table, and laughed with Robb until his sides hurt. But now, the weight of scrutiny settled on him like an old coat, familiar in the way that made his skin itch.

Jon had barely survived the car ride over. Sansa had insisted on picking him up, citing some nonsense about how she didn’t trust him to show up in his usual clothes. And, she had spent the entire day being obnoxiously bossy about it. So now he was sitting in the passenger seat of her absurdly expensive car, stewing in the latest argument: his sweater.

“You couldn’t just wear the button-up I told you to?” she sighed, glancing at him as she made a turn.

Jon crossed his arms. “This is a perfectly fine sweater.”

“It’s navy blue.”

“Yeah, and?”

Sansa exhaled sharply. “And I specifically told you to wear the white shirt.”

Jon smirked, slouching further into the seat. “Didn’t feel like it. I was going to wear my leather jacket so maybe you should thank the old gods I didn’t.”

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “God, you’re so infuriating.”

“You’re freaking out,” he countered, glancing at her. “Trying to control everything because you’re stressed.”

“I am not freaking out,” she snapped.

Jon huffed a laugh. “Right. That’s why you sent six separate texts about what socks I should wear.”

“I—” She cut herself off, lips pressing together. 

Jon shook his head, smirking to himself. He had known her long enough to tell when she was spiralling. She was in full panic mode, hiding behind perfectly applied lipstick and a painfully put-together outfit. He didn’t blame her — Catelyn Stark could make anyone spiral — but it was so obvious that he couldn’t help but poke at it.

“You should be thanking me, honestly,” he mused.

“For what?” she said flatly.

“Keeping you from melting down.”

Sansa scoffed. “Please. The only thing you’re keeping me from is a night without a headache.”

Jon grinned. “You’re welcome.”

She flicked on the blinker with a little more force than necessary. 

Staring up at the gates, Jon didn’t feel as playful as he’d felt before, staring at the familiar front door he’d stepped a thousand times in. Let’s get this over with, he thought with sickening dread. Jon barely had time to brace himself before Rickon came barreling toward him, a blur of untamed curls.

“Jonny!”

Jon grunted as the youngest Stark crashed into him, locking his arms around his waist in a hug so forceful it nearly knocked him off balance. He patted Rickon’s head awkwardly, noting the way Sansa let out a long-suffering sigh beside him.

“Oof — Rickon,” Jon muttered.

Rickon grinned up at him, eyes alight with mischief. Bran appeared at his side, arms crossed, gaze entirely too serious for someone his age.

“Rickon, get off him,” Bran said flatly.

“I missed him,” Rickon huffed, clinging tighter.

“You saw him last month.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get to tackle him last month.”

“Can you two not maul him on the doorstep, please?” said Sansa. “We’re already late.”

Jon gently patted Rickon, heart still thudding. The younger Starks had always been a kind of buffer — chaotic, messy, real. 

Bran narrowed his eyes at Jon. “You’re acting weird.”

Jon blinked. “I’m literally standing still.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you even like my sister?” Bran asked, blunt as ever.

Jon stared at Bran, caught off guard by the directness of the question. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. What could he say? That he was here under false pretences, pretending to be Sansa’s boyfriend? That he was a fraud sitting in the heart of the Stark family home?

“I—” Jon cut himself off. He wasn’t sure what he could say without making everything worse. “I like your sister well enough,” he finally muttered.

Jon glanced at Sansa, her posture perfect, her eyes slightly narrowed but unreadable. He had seen that look too many times. But the way she let Rickon hug him, the small smile playing on her lips, made Jon’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t want to acknowledge. He peeled Rickon off him with some effort, ruffling the kid’s wild curls. Rickon grinned up at him like he was some returning hero, and Jon found himself almost smiling before Bran’s voice cut in again.

“So do you like her or not?”

Jon’s gaze flickered to Bran, standing there with that same unsettlingly perceptive stare. He was too smart for his own good. 

“I said I like her well enough,” Jon repeated carefully, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Bran made a noise, not quite satisfied. “That’s not an answer.”

Jon didn’t know how to play this part. He could handle Sansa’s sniping, Margaery’s teasing and Theon’s unrelenting smugness, but this was the Starks. His second family in a sense. The years he’d spent in the periphery, just close enough to touch but never really part of it, settled over him like a second skin.

Jon swallowed past the lump in his throat and ruffled Rickon’s hair. “Alright, let go before Sansa kills us both.”

Rickon released him reluctantly, stepping back with a toothy grin. “She’s always mad about something.”

Sansa sighed. “I am not always mad.”

Bran gave her a flat look. “You do seem particularly mad right now.”

Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mother is waiting,” she said tightly, brushing past them toward the house, and Jon had no choice but to follow.

Bran kept pace beside him, unrelenting. “You never actually answered my question.”

Jon glanced down at him. “Didn’t I?”

Bran raised an unimpressed brow. “No.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

Jon had to bite back a laugh. As if that was an option. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shifting his gaze to the perfectly manicured lawn, the stone path leading up to the entrance he’d crossed so many times before.

“I like her,” he said after a beat, voice quieter than before. It wasn’t even a lie. He did like Sansa. She was insufferable and particular and spoilt beyond reason, but she was also—

He cut the thought off before it could go too far.

Sansa had already stepped through the front door, her silhouette framed against the warm glow spilling out from the entryway. He knew what waited for them inside. This was a mistake. But it was too late to turn back now. He took a breath and followed her inside.

“Bran, Rickon, don’t huddle around our guest at the door. You both know better.”

Catelyn Stark’s voice was calm but firm, the kind that didn’t invite argument. Her gaze swept over Jon with the same measuring look she had always given him. Jon straightened instinctively. He wasn’t a kid anymore, wasn’t the scrappy best friend of her golden boy, and yet the feeling was the same. That quiet, unspoken judgment.

He forced a polite smile. “Lady Stark.”

“Jonathan,” she returned, sounding so much like her sister, Lysa, her own smile equally polite. Her gaze flickered to Sansa. “I trust the drive was smooth, sweetling?”

Sansa nodded. “Yes, mother.” 

“That’s good,” Catelyn said, her gaze lingering on Jon a beat too long before she turned smoothly on her heel. “Your father is in the study. We’ll have dinner shortly.”

A younger version of himself would have slunk away by now and let himself fade into the background of this house the way he always had. But he wasn’t that kid anymore. He wasn’t here because Robb had dragged him along. He was here because Sansa had asked him to be. And that, somehow, made it worse.

They barely made it past the grand staircase before Arya appeared, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between confusion and annoyance.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” she declared, looking between them. “You two are not dating.”

“Hello, Arya,” he said. 

Arya ignored him. “Seriously, what is this?” She gestured between them, eyebrows raised at Sansa. “Have you both hit your head or something? Are you being blackmailed? Is this a hostage situation? You don’t even like each other.”

Sansa sighed, rubbing her temple. “It’s good to see you, Arya. Truly.”

Arya huffed. “This is stupid.”

Jon almost laughed. If there was one thing he could always count on, it was Arya’s complete and utter refusal to pretend. He was half tempted to tell her the truth just to see how she’d react, but Sansa shot him a sharp look like she knew exactly what he was thinking. But then a thought crossed his mind. Because what does he like about Sansa? She’s exasperating, too smart for her own good, arrogant in the way that only comes from growing up with too much expectation — but she’s also kind. Fiercely loyal. Too damn beautiful for his peace of mind.

Before he could open his mouth, Rickon — who had become bored of whatever was happening — grabbed Jon’s wrist. “Come on,” he said, already tugging him toward the den. “You have to see my new game.”

Jon blinked, caught off guard, but let himself be dragged. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Sansa, who had already turned her attention back to Arya, her lips pressing into a thin line. This was going to be a long night. Rickon released him only when they reached the massive television mounted on the wall. 

“Look,” he said, fumbling with the controller before the screen lit up. Some kind of RPG, from the looks of it, all swords and magic and old-school pixel art.

Rickon shoved the controller into Jon’s hands like he was passing off a sacred artefact. “You’re gonna love it,” he said seriously. “I’ve already named my character after you. He has a sword and a tragic backstory.”

Jon blinked. “Wow. Thanks?”

“He also broods a lot and doesn’t talk to anyone unless he’s forced to. So, y’know. Realism.”

Jon stared at the screen, where a moody little pixelated warrior with messy black hair was standing outside a pixelated tavern under pixelated moonlight.

Rickon flopped onto the floor, legs kicking behind him like he’d had five too many sodas. “Don’t let him die, okay? Last time Arya played she made him walk off a cliff because she got bored.”

“Sounds about right.”

He let the game distract him for a few minutes, clicking through dialogue and fighting some skeletal-looking wolves, but his mind wasn’t really on it. He wondered what Sansa was saying to defend this ridiculous lie. 

Rickon nudged him with a foot. “Are you really dating Sansa?”

Jon didn’t look away from the screen. “Yeah.”

Rickon made a sceptical noise. “Huh. Weird.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean — it’s weird because she used to say you were, like, stupid.”

Jon barked out a laugh. “She said that?”

“Yeah. And that you have stupid hair.”

He glanced down at the kid. “Anything nice, or. . .?”

Rickon shrugged. “She said you were kind of hot for a bartender once. But then she made a face after, so I don’t know if that was, like, good or a cry for help.” Rickon thought for a second, lips pursed. “She said your hands are kind of nice once. When you were fixing the sink. She got weird after and told me to shut up, though.”

Jon frowned. “. . . My hands?”

“Yeah. She also said your voice is, like, annoyingly deep. And that you look stupid in your leather jacket, but she keeps staring when you wear it, so I don’t think she actually means it.”

Jon blinked. “I — what?”

Rickon shrugged again, totally unbothered. “Dunno. Girls are weird.”

Jon didn’t say anything. He just stared at the screen while his pixelated namesake got mauled by a wolf because he wasn’t paying attention. Game Over flashed in red block letters, but he barely noticed.

Rickon turned his head lazily toward him. “Are you, like. . . gonna cry or something?”

Jon blinked. “No.”

“You look like you might.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.” Rickon went back to restarting the game. “But if you do, I won’t tell. Probably.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome.” Another pause. Then: “You like her, don’t you?”

Jon didn’t answer. Not right away. His fingers curled on his knees, the skin warm where Rickon’s words had struck something real. He didn’t know how to say yes without sounding pathetic. Didn’t know how to say no without lying.

So he said the one thing that was still true. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Rickon hummed. “Nobody does. Not even Mum. She burned rice last week when the cook was on holiday and pretended it was ‘crispy-style.’”

Jon snorted. He couldn’t help it.

“I just mean,” Rickon went on, arms flailing, “you don’t have to be a genius. You just have to not be dumb.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Is that your ten-year-old wisdom?”

Rickon grinned. “I’m eleven.”

“Right. My mistake.”

A voice interrupted them.

“Rickon, let Jon breathe.”

When Jon turned, it was Robb. He looked almost the same as he had the last time Jon had seen him, which wasn’t all that long ago. His hair was a little shorter, his beard a little fuller, but the expression on his face was different. Jon knew that look. The same one Robb used to give him when they were kids and Jon had done something particularly stupid — climbing too high, fighting too hard, refusing to back down even when it was obvious he was going to lose. It was the look that said what the hell were you thinking? without actually saying it. And Jon had no good answer.

Rickon, blissfully unaware of the sudden shift in atmosphere, was still explaining something about his game, but Jon barely heard him. His attention was locked on Robb, who watched him with that tight, unreadable expression that didn’t bode well for the rest of the evening.

Jon exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “What?”

Robb didn’t answer right away. Instead, he jerked his head toward the door. “A word.”

Jon glanced at Rickon, who had finally looked up, frowning. “I was showing him—”

“You can show him later,” Robb said, voice even but firm.

Rickon huffed but didn’t argue. He flopped back onto the couch, already returning his attention to the game, and Jon followed Robb into the hall. As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Robb rounded on him.

“What the hell are you thinking?” he hissed, keeping his voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry.

Jon sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Here we go.”

“Don’t do that,” Robb snapped. “Don’t act like this is normal. You and Sansa? You hate each other.”

Jon bristled. He was really fucking tired of people assuming they hated each other. “We don’t hate each other.” At least he didn’t. 

“Oh? So, I’m supposed to believe you’ve secretly had a thing for my little sister this whole time?” Robb’s expression darkened, suspicion flickering behind his eyes before twisting into something sharper. “Wait — have you been watching her? Sneaking around, pretending to be my friend while you were actually—” He cut himself off, disgust flashing across his face. “Tell me you haven’t been waiting for this, Snow?”

Jon’s jaw tightened, a slow, simmering heat curling in his chest. He’d expected Robb to be pissed — hell, he would’ve been worried if he wasn’t — but this? The implication behind his words, the way his face twisted with something close to revulsion? That stung. It was another reminder that he’d never truly belong. He’d never be good enough, definitely not for Sansa. 

Jon let out a sharp breath, levelling his best friend with a look. “Are you serious right now?”

Robb’s glare didn’t waver. “I don’t know, Jon. Am I? Because from where I’m standing, this whole thing stinks.”

He thought Jon was going to hurt her. Jon swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He could feel his pulse in his ears, loud and steady, a quiet, rhythmic fuck fuck fuck pulsing beneath his skin. There were a thousand ways he could handle this. He could let Robb believe whatever he wanted. He could pick a fight, push back, make him so pissed off that he’d stop questioning and just start yelling.

But then he thought of Sansa. Of the way she had looked in the car, tense and controlled, already bracing herself for battle. Of the way that she had softened — just slightly — when Rickon tackled Jon at the door like some part of her wanted him there. 

Jon clenched his fists in his pockets. He just met Robb’s gaze, steady as stone, and said, “I care about her.” It was pure truth coming from his mouth. 

Robb’s nostrils flared. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Jon didn’t blink. “It does to me.”

Robb raked a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back to him. He looked like he wanted to argue or rip Jon’s head off. Robb stopped pacing, pressing his hands to his hips, exhaling sharply. 

“You don’t understand,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You weren’t here.”

Jon frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Robb let out a bitter laugh. “You know how many times we’ve had to pick up the pieces after some fucking prick broke her heart? How many times I’ve had to sit there, watching her pretend she wasn’t hurting, while everyone else just acted like everything was fine?”

Jon stayed quiet. Because no, he hadn’t been here for that. He’d been away in the far North for university getting his undergraduate. He hadn’t been here when Sansa had gone through whatever heartbreak Robb talked about. But hearing it from Robb and seeing the frustration and helplessness on his face that was different.

Robb exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I can’t do that again, Jon. I won’t.” His voice was quieter now like he hated saying it out loud. “And if it’s you—” He cut himself off, shaking his head again. “I don’t want to hate you. You’re my best friend, but Sansa’s my sister. I have to pick her.”

Jon’s stomach sank. He didn’t know what to say. So instead, he just said the only thing he could. “I won’t hurt her.” It came out quieter than he meant it to. Steady, but softer. A promise he hadn’t even realised he was making.

“You better not,” Robb muttered. “Because if you do—”

Jon’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. “Yeah, yeah. You’ll kill me.”

Robb didn’t smile. “Aye, and I’ll hate you too.”

Jon felt that land somewhere deep in his chest. Robb had always been the closest thing he’d had to a brother. And hearing him say it and lay it out like there wasn’t a single scenario where Jon fucking this up wouldn’t cost him made Jon’s stomach twist.

Jon nodded, his throat tight. “Understood.”

A voice cut through like a blade. “Oh, thank the gods. I was starting to think I’d have to drag you both in myself.”

Jon turned, already bracing himself for whatever fresh hell awaited, only for his stomach to drop. Theon. Standing there with his usual insufferable grin, hands in his pockets, watching them like he’d just walked into the most entertaining part of the evening. Jon frowned. What the fuck was he doing here?

Theon smirked. “Ah, the warmth. The brotherly love. I missed this.” He glanced between them, head tilting slightly. “I assume we’re all still alive? No bloodshed yet?”

Jon stared at him. “Why are you here?”

Theon blinked, then let out a laugh. “Oh, you didn’t know?” His grin widened. “This is priceless.”

Jon’s stomach sank. “Know what?”

Theon clasped a hand on Jon’s shoulder, far too amused for Jon’s liking. “I’m here for family dinner.”

Jon stiffened. “You’re what?”

Theon shrugged like it was no big deal. “Lady Catelyn invited me. Apparently, I add a charming balance to the evening.”

Jon shot Robb a disbelieving look. “And you let this happen?”

Robb looked equally displeased. “Do you think I have any say in anything in this house?”

Jon sighed heavily, rubbing a hand down his face. As if this night wasn’t already spiralling into disaster, now Theon — Theon, who lived to stir shit up — was going to be there, watching this whole mess unfold like it was his own personal entertainment.

Theon, sensing Jon’s suffering, grinned. “Oh, don’t worry, Snow. I’ll be so supportive.”

Jon shot him a glare. “Fuck off, Greyjoy. I will kill you.”

Theon cackled. “And miss dinner? No chance. Sweet Sansa will kill you afterwards herself.”

Jon exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to his temples. “This cannot be happening.”

“Oh, but it is,” Theon said, looking far too pleased with himself. “And honestly, I think it’s a great opportunity for us all to bond and get to know each other even more than we do already. You, me, Sansa — Lady Stark.” He waggled his brows. “I’m sure she’ll have so many questions for you.”

Jon’s stomach twisted. As if I needed reminding, he thought. 

Robb sighed and muttered, “Can we just get this over with?”

Theon grinned, slinging an arm around Jon’s shoulders. “That’s the spirit, lads! Into the lion’s den we go.”

“We’re not Lannisters, Greyjoy. Our sigil is the Direwolf, remember?” 

“Yeah, yeah, wolves, honour, all that Stark nonsense.” 

Robb pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just — let’s go before Mother starts wondering if we’ve snuck out the back.”

Jon let out a slow breath and followed as Theon practically strutted into the dining room. Jon wasn’t sure what was worse — the inevitable scrutiny from Catelyn and Ned, or Theon’s agonising commentary throughout the entire meal.

The dining room was as grand as Jon remembered with high ceilings, a heavy oak table and the glow of candlelight reflecting off polished silverware. It was the kind of place that had always felt too big, too formal, too not him. But tonight, it felt even smaller. Because every step he took, every movement toward the empty seat beside Sansa, was under the sharp eyes of both Catelyn and Ned Stark. Still, there was no backing out now. He took the seat beside Sansa, trying not to think too hard about the way she barely glanced at him. He kept his posture even, his hands on his lap, resisting the urge to fidget. 

Ned’s eyes landed on him and he offered a kind smile. “It’s good to see you again, Jon.”

Jon nodded, relieved that he didn’t look at him any differently. “You too, Lord Stark.”

Ned gave a small nod in return before shifting his gaze to Sansa. “Your mother tells me this was a bit of a surprise. To her and everyone else.”

“Yes,” Sansa replied smoothly. “But a good surprise.”

Across the table, Theon barely suppressed a grin. Robb, meanwhile, looked like he wanted to disappear into his chair.

Ned’s brows lifted slightly, but his expression remained unreadable. “How long?”

Jon knew the question was coming. He had prepared for it. And yet, he still felt his stomach twist.

Sansa answered before he could. “A few months.”

Jon nodded quickly in agreement, though it still felt strange to be nodding along to a story that had been hastily compiled from hurried text messages and a very stressful car ride.

Ned hummed. “And you didn’t think to mention it before now? We had to hear it from your Aunt Lysa first.”

“I wanted to be sure first. Before bringing it to the family.”

Lady Catelyn, who had been watching them with a sharp precision, finally spoke. “Sansa’s happiness is important to us.”

Jon met her gaze. “I know.”

Ned’s gaze flicked toward him again, assessing but not unkind. “And you intend to take that seriously.”

Robb watched him, arms crossed like he dared Jon to say the wrong thing. Even Arya, who had been silent so far, was now leaning slightly forward, waiting for his answer.

Jon nodded, voice quiet but firm. “I do.”

There was a beat of silence after Jon’s answer. The moment stretched a beat too long before Arya leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm, her eyes flicking between him and Sansa.

“So,” she said, far too casually, “Sansa, what exactly do you like about Jon? His charm? His sparkling wit? His hair?”

Jon tensed. Here we go. Sansa, to her credit, didn’t flinch. But he could feel the way her spine stiffened ever so slightly beside him and the pause in her breath. He had to hand it to Arya — that was a good question. The kind of thing people who were actually in a relationship would be able to answer without thinking. He and Sansa had not planned fully for it.

Sansa’s fingers curled lightly around the stem of her glass as she turned her gaze to her sister. “What a juvenile question.”

Arya smirked. “Oh, come on, humour me, Sans. I mean, it is a little surprising, don’t you think? You always went for—” she waved a hand vaguely, “—guys like Harry. You know, polished. Blonde. The kind that wouldn’t be caught dead in a navy sweater. I didn’t think Jon of all people would be your type.”

Jon clenched his jaw, already regretting every decision that had led to this moment. I should’ve worn that damn button-up like Sansa suggested, he thought bitterly. Fuck that photographer for capturing that shot. Fuck Satin for making him go on that wretched blind date. And fuck Harry Hardyng for being such an asshole and making Sansa feel that she had to do this. 

“He’s steady,” Sansa said. “Loyal. And he doesn’t care about putting on a show.”

Jon blinked. That. . . actually wasn’t bad.

Across the table, Theon howled with laughter. “Oh, amazing,” he gasped. “Truly, love is alive. You know, Lady Stark, Sansa once wrote an entire essay about what her ideal boyfriend would be like.”

Sansa froze. Jon had just started to relax before that sentence fully registered. He turned to her slowly, brows raised.

Lady Catelyn arched a brow. “Oh?”

Sansa’s voice was clipped. “Theon.”

But it was too late.

“Oh, it was a masterpiece,” Theon continued, ignoring the warning in her tone. “A full rundown. The perfect boyfriend.”

Arya perked up. “Oh, yeah. I remember that.” She glanced at Jon, her grin sharp. “Want to take a guess?”

Jon sighed. “I think I’ll pass.”

Theon smirked. “Oh, come on, you might as well know what standard you’re supposed to be meeting.”

Sansa set her glass down with a little more force than necessary. “I wrote that when I was twelve.”

Theon ignored her completely. “He was supposed to be charming, graceful, poised, a prince among men.” He looked Jon up and down, head tilting slightly. “So. That’s you, huh?”

Jon barely resisted the urge to rub his temples. “Clearly.”

Theon snickered. “Yeah, Snow. How’s it feel to know you’re the man of her dreams?”

“I’ll let you know after dessert.”

Ned, who had been silent through most of this, exhaled slightly like he wasn’t quite sure whether this conversation amused or exhausted him. Lady Catelyn was still watching Jon, sharp and unreadable. Jon sat back, trying not to let the weight of her stare get to him. And then—

Rickon, who had been focused on his plate up until now, suddenly piped up with, “Wait. Have you two even kissed yet?”

Jon groaned internally. Theon wheezed with laughter. Robb choked on a mashed potato and had to be thumped on the back by Arya quite forcefully.

Sansa turned to Rickon, voice sweet but deadly. “Eat your vegetables.”

Rickon narrowed his eyes at her. “So that’s a no?”

Lady Catelyn sighed sharply, pressing her fingers to her temple. Lord Stark reached for his wine.

Jon let out a slow breath and, before he could think better of it, leaned slightly toward Sansa and murmured just loud enough for her to hear, “If I say yes, do you think he’ll leave us alone?”

Sansa turned to him so slowly that Jon felt a chill down his spine. Jon hadn’t meant to say it. It had just slipped out, a knee-jerk response. The way he leaned in and let his voice drop just enough for only Sansa to hear was instinctive. It was a line, something to keep up the act. It should have been nothing. He’d spent his younger years trading quips with her, arguing over the remote, rolling his eyes at her dramatics. They had never been close, never crossed past that familiar, begrudging tolerance into something more. And yet, sitting here, watching her expression shift Jon felt something strange settle in his chest.

The noise around them dulled for a moment. Arya was still laughing, Theon was still egging Rickon on, and Robb looked like he was debating the merits of slamming his head against the table. But all Jon could focus on was the way Sansa’s pink maddening lips parted like something she wanted to say just to him. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the moment passed.

She rolled her eyes, her voice dry as she reached for her water glass. “You wish.”

Jon let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, shaking off the strange pull in his stomach. Still, he couldn’t stop watching her. The sweep of her lashes as she turned away. The way her jaw tightened as Arya launched into some new story about how Sansa once tried to kiss a boy through a Juliet balcony because she thought it would be like something out of a song.

He used to think of her as delicate — not weak, just. . . polished or carefully arranged. But there was nothing delicate about the Sansa beside him now. There was steel under the silk and fire under the cool exterior. And maybe that had always been there. He’d just never looked long enough to notice. He cut his glance toward her again. She hadn’t looked at him since. Right. Back to normal.

Except. . . 

Except it wasn’t.

Because at some point between dodging Rickon’s flying peas and enduring Lady Stark’s ever-watchful gaze, something shifted. Jon didn’t expect it. He’d come here dreading every second, bracing for scrutiny and disdain, for the quiet but pointed reminder that he wasn’t meant to be here. He’d thought he’d spend the entire dinner gripping his fork too tight, resisting the urge to adjust his too-stiff navy sweater, and counting down the minutes until he could leave.

But then Sansa smirked at him when he made a joke at Theon’s expense. Her hand found him under the table. Just a brush of her fingers at first, nothing deliberate. The moment it happened, his entire focus narrowed to that single point of contact. His skin burned where she touched him, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull away or lean in.

At some point, Jon realised that he liked being here. Not just tolerated, playing a part or even just enduring. He liked this. He liked sitting at this table, beneath the warm glow of the chandelier, surrounded by the chaotic, suffocating, inescapable presence of the Starks. He liked the sound of Robb and Arya bickering over who had really won that ski trip race three years ago. He liked the way Bran observed everything, too perceptive for someone still growing into his voice. He liked how Rickon grinned at him like he was a knight from one of his video games.

And he liked Sansa most of all.

Not in the way he was pretending to. But in the way that made his stomach twist and made him hyperaware of every brush of fabric, every fleeting glance, every moment she let her guard down just enough for her family and for him to see past the surface. He liked being here. He liked being hers. Even if it wasn’t real, Jon thought, and the truth of it landed heavier than he expected. He shifted slightly in his seat, trying to ease the knot in his chest. It didn’t work. Because it felt real. It felt too real. 

He glanced sideways at her again — Sansa, with her perfect posture and calm expression. She was talking now — something about her internship, her voice smooth and sure. He watched the curve of her mouth as she spoke, the ease with which she carried herself, and felt that same tug in his chest. He wondered if she even noticed the way she was holding her breath between sentences. The way her fingers still lingered just near his under the table, not quite touching now but not fully pulled back either. She was so good at this. The performance. The lie. Jon wasn’t sure if he admired her for it or resented her a little for how easy she made it look when he was still sitting here trying to remember how to fucking breathe without making it obvious. He sat there trying to tell the difference between real and pretend.

The drive back was a type of quiet that settled warmly rather than suffocating. He had felt. . . He didn’t know what the word was. Not welcomed, exactly. He wasn’t delusional. But part of it, in a way he hadn’t anticipated. In a way that lingered now, even as they drove down the long, winding road leading away from the Stark estate.

Sansa hadn’t spoken much since they left. Her hands were steady on the wheel, her eyes fixed on the road, and Jon found himself watching her out of the corner of his eye. She looked softer now, less put-together than she had at the beginning of dinner. Her eyelashes were long and the moonlight hit her cheekbones. 

Jon let his head rest against the seat. “That went better than I thought,” he said, breaking the silence.

Sansa huffed a quiet laugh. “No thanks to Theon.”

Jon smirked. “No thanks to Rickon, either.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t look at him. “He’s eleven. You can’t hold it against him.”

“Oh, I absolutely can,” Jon muttered. “He’s a menace.”

Sansa smiled at that, small but real. “He likes you.”

Jon hesitated. He hadn’t thought about it like that. Rickon had always been a wild little thing, full of boundless energy and very little sense of personal space. But he had clung to Jon like it was natural. Arya had prodded at him, but that was just Arya. And Robb. . . Well. He wasn’t going to think about Robb right now.

Instead, he asked, “And you?”

Sansa frowned slightly, her hands tightening around the wheel. “What about me?”

“Did I pass?”

“Pass what?”

“Your family’s impossible test.”

Sansa sighed, tapping her fingers lightly against the steering wheel. “There’s no test, Jon.”

Jon snorted. “You say that, but I swear Bran was trying to extract secrets out of me.”

Sansa let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Bran just likes to understand people.”

“Uh-huh,” Jon muttered. “And what about you?”

Sansa shot him a look, but there was something softer and thoughtful behind it. “What about me?” she echoed.

Jon hesitated. He didn’t know what answer he was looking for. Whatever warmth had settled in his chest tonight would have to be left behind when they reached his apartment. Jon stared out the window for a beat, watching the trees blur by. He wasn’t even sure why he’d asked. Or maybe he did — it just slipped out like everything else around her did lately. His guard, his patience, his sense.

He turned back toward her. “Did you like having me there?” he asked.

There was a long pause. Sansa didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the road, but her jaw shifted.

Finally, she said, “You didn’t embarrass me if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Wow. I feel so reassured.”

That earned him another flicker of a smile, but it disappeared almost immediately. The silence returned; they were both circling something neither of them was brave enough to name.

Jon tilted his head back again. “It didn’t feel fake,” he said quietly.

Sansa’s fingers stilled on the steering wheel. Then she said, low and even, “It wasn’t supposed to.”

“That so?”

“I mean, that’s the point, isn’t it? Make it believable. Enough that they don’t ask questions.”

“Yeah. . .” Jon exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “I still think this was a bad idea,” he muttered.

Sansa didn’t answer right away. He saw how her gaze flicked toward him for half a second before returning to the road. “You didn’t have to do this,” she said after a moment.

Jon huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I did.”

Sansa glanced at him then, brow furrowing slightly. “Why?”

Jon opened his mouth, but the answer sat heavy in his throat. Because of Harry. Because he looked at you like you were something to be pitied. Because Ellyn is a snake and you deserved better than the smug way she talked about you in that article. Because I couldn’t stand there and do nothing while they tried to make you feel small. But he couldn’t say that.

He shrugged. “Seemed like the thing to do.”

Sansa turned her gaze back to the road, lips pressing together. “It was reckless.”

Jon smirked. “I thought you liked reckless.”

Sansa shot him an unimpressed look. “I like calculated risks.”

Jon huffed a laugh, but it faded quickly. The reality of what they’d done — what it meant — settled back over him, heavy and inescapable.

Jon leaned his head against the seat again, exhaling slowly. “So what now?”

Sansa was quiet for a long moment. The car hummed along the road, the streetlights casting long shadows across her face. “We let it run its course,” she said finally.

Jon frowned. “Which means?”

“We play our parts until we don’t have to.”

Jon swallowed. There it was. The reminder. This was temporary. And yet, something in him resisted it. Why? Because he liked it or something. Jon sighed and let his eyes fall shut. Something heavy dropped in his chest like a stone. 

“Right, of course,” he murmured inaudibly. “Let it run its course.”

Chapter Text

She wasn’t going to think about it.

But three days later, and after one expensive exfoliating mask, Sansa was still thinking about it, about Jon Snow, of all people. Sansa replayed the dinner in her mind, each moment sharper than the last, like glass catching light at unexpected angles. He should have been a disaster, and that was the truth of it. Jon Snow, in that ridiculous navy sweater, with his stubborn refusal to follow even the simplest direction, should have embarrassed her. She had been braced for it: the awkward silences, the fumbling answers to her mother’s carefully measured questions, the inevitable faux pas that would ripple through the evening like cracks in porcelain.

But instead, he had sat there, infuriatingly calm, as though the Stark scrutiny rolled right off him. He’d answered politely when spoken to, neither too much nor too little, never pushing, never grasping. He had even managed to meet her mother’s gaze without flinching, which was more than could be said for half of Sansa’s actual suitors. Then there were her siblings: Rickon draped over him like a limpet, Bran’s blunt questions delivered like arrows, Arya’s relentless disbelief.

It was irritating. Deeply, profoundly annoying.

He had handled himself well and refused to give her the satisfaction of being right about him. In some twisted, traitorous part of her mind, she had actually been impressed; that, more than anything, she could not forgive. Sansa prided herself on her discernment, on knowing quality when she saw it — in clothing, in art, in people. Jon Snow was not quality. He was surly silences and wrinkled shirts, the embodiment of all things unpolished. He was not supposed to blend into her family’s world with any degree of grace. And yet. . . 

When she thought back to the curve of his mouth just before he spoke, she felt that familiar tug of reluctant admiration. He had not humiliated her. Worse, he had protected her, subtly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

The gossip should have burned itself out by now. That was what Sansa told herself, at least. These things flared brightly for a few days before dwindling into irrelevance, replaced by the next scandal, the next photo, the next headline. She should have been free of it already. But instead, every time she opened her phone, there they were, her name and his, bound together in bold typeface, as though fate itself had decided they were a packaged deal.

Some pieces were laughable, all sugar and speculation, the kind of fluff written by columnists desperate to fill an empty page. Others were infuriatingly earnest. There was one — a glossy thinkpiece in The Westerosi Journal — that made her stomach turn. “Unexpectedly magnetic,” it called them. The phrase had lodged itself in her chest like a splinter. She read the line over and over, hoping it would dull with repetition, but it only sharpened.

It was absurd. Jon Snow was not magnetic. He was obstinate and unrefined, incapable of following the simplest instruction about what to wear. He was Robb’s shadow, the boy who had once dismissed her with a single careless remark that had taken years to sand out of her pride. She knew him, or she thought she did. Lately, when she thought of him, she found herself stumbling. The first time she caught herself waiting for his text, Sansa nearly dropped her phone in horror. 

Jon had left some invisible thread tugging at her. She would be brushing her hair before bed, and her mind would return, unbidden, to the way his eyes had darkened when Harry called her little dove. She would be scrolling absently through emails, and suddenly, the exact cadence of his voice, when he’d said she was brilliant and sharp as hell, would sound in her ear. She’d sip her coffee in the morning, and it would taste wrong, too thin, because she’d thought of how he always took his black and bitter.

Jon appeared everywhere now, as if the pattern of her life had shifted and made room for him. At first, she had assumed it was a strategy, some tacit agreement between them that they must be seen together until the gossip burned out. But strategy did not explain the afternoon when Arya insisted they all meet at the park for a game of football, nor the evening when Bran wanted them to walk him home from the library because the streets grew too dark too early. Somehow Jon was always there, folding into the shape of her family with unnerving ease.

Jon drank his tea without sugar, but he stirred it all the same, as if the ritual mattered more than the taste. He read quickly, devouring pages in silence, but always paused before turning to the next chapter, his thumb pressed lightly against the paper. He had a way of crouching to speak with Rickon that never felt condescending, as if he were lowering himself in kinship.

None of these things should have lodged in her mind, but they did. They gathered quietly, like fallen leaves in a corner, until she found herself stepping carefully, aware of the accumulation.

One evening, when they went to a crowded food market as part of their appearance, Sansa found herself beside him at one of the stalls, the air thick with spices and the clang of metal pans. He held out a small paper dish, clearly meant for himself, but when she glanced at it, he tilted it toward her without hesitation.

“Try it,” he said simply.

She almost refused — she always refused, when it came to being offered things unasked — but there was something so earnest in the gesture that she surprised herself by leaning in, taking a bite. It was hotter than she expected, sharp with spice, and she blinked once before steadying her expression. He only gave the faintest curl of a smile, as if he had known she would not back down from the heat.

When walking back beneath the glow of the streetlamps, she found herself replaying that small moment, ludicrous as it was. She hated the way it clung to her, the taste lingering as though it were bound up with him somehow. Another time, she caught him waiting outside the bakery near her family’s house, holding a small paper bag. When she raised her brow, he only shrugged.

“Your sister said you like these,” he said, offering them.

She took the bag and opened it to find lemon cakes still warm from the oven. He didn’t look smug, the way Harry would have, pleased with himself for remembering some trivia about her. Jon only shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as though this entire exchange was of no consequence.

“They’ll go cold if you don’t eat them,” he added, glancing away, his voice almost gruff.

Sansa lifted one delicate cake from the bag, the sugar dusting her fingertips, and took a bite. The lemon burst bright on her tongue, sharp and sweet all at once. She swallowed hard, surprised by the sting in her chest. Her voice came out cooler than she felt. 

“You shouldn’t listen to everything Arya tells you.”

Jon’s mouth twitched. “Did she lie?”

Sansa said nothing, biting into the soft cake as though to silence the thought.

Still, the days went on. The more she told herself to ignore him, the more the fabric of her life seemed to conspire against her. He was not dazzling, not magnetic in the way the papers had written. But he was steady, and in that steadiness there was a pull she had not accounted for, a pull she had no wish to name. 

The strangest part was how natural it began to feel. She had braced herself for strain, for effort, for the kind of stilted politeness that made every second stretch. But instead, there were these silences between them, long and unbroken, that somehow did not press against her. She told herself they were neutral, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but that was a lie, and she knew it.

They walked together more often than she ever intended. Once, down the narrow streets near the river, where the cobblestones were uneven, she found herself watching his stride instead of her own, irritated by the realisation. He did not rush; he moved as though time itself could bend around him, steady and unhurried.

One night, when rain threatened and the city smelled sharp with it, she had found herself in his flat. She had told herself it was convenient — they had been nearby, and he had insisted she shouldn’t walk home before the downpour broke. His rooms were smaller, the furniture plain, but there was a certain lived-in kind of neatness that surprised her. Books stacked in piles, a coat hung with deliberate precision by the door. While he poured water into the kettle, she let her eyes trace the spines of the books without meaning to, titles half-familiar, some worn at the edges from use. He caught her looking.

“You’ve read all of these?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Then why keep so many?”

He hesitated, then said quietly, “Feels wrong to throw them out.”

She arched her brow, trying to keep her voice dry. “You’re sentimental, then.”

His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile. “Not about most things.”

“So you hoard them instead? That’s your grand excuse?”

“You’d rather I threw them away?”

She opened her mouth to say yes, to point out that it was untidy, unnecessary, another mark against him, but the words caught. She couldn’t quite picture it, the shelves bare, the piles gone. The thought made the room feel emptier than she liked.

“No,” she said at last. “I suppose not.”

Jon turned back to the kettle, reaching for two mismatched mugs. She noticed his hands, steady, careful.

“Tea?” he asked.

She gave a faint shrug, lowering herself into one of his chairs with deliberate poise. “If that’s what you’re having.”

A corner of his mouth twitched, as though he found that amusing. He dropped a teabag into each mug, poured the water, and slid one toward her across the table. “It’s all I’ve got.”

Sansa wrapped her fingers around the mug. Too hot, but she didn’t flinch. “You don’t keep coffee?”

“Don’t like it.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

He looked up at that, dark eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She sipped, ignoring the sting on her tongue. “Just that you strike me as the sort who avoids anything too. . . indulgent.”

“And what do you drink, then? Coffee with milk and sugar until it’s more dessert than drink?”

Her lips curved, just barely. “Sometimes.”

“Figures.”

She sipped the tea. The silence, she realised with something like growing unease, was not uncomfortable at all.

The park was Jon’s idea. A way to be seen together once more in public. Sansa herself would have preferred a café, or the small gallery near the theatre district where the walls smelled faintly of oil paint and varnish. But instead she found herself in the wide sprawl of the city park on a cool afternoon, her shoes sinking slightly into the damp grass, the air brisk enough that the trees shivered when the wind passed through.

It was crowded, as these places always were when the weather threatened rain but had not yet followed through. Families with prams, students with headphones, older couples with newspapers folded neatly under their arms. And then there was Jon, walking at her side with a leash in hand, as though the simplest thing in the world were to bring an enormous white wolf into the midst of it all. Ghost padded beside him with unhurried grace, his coat so pale it caught what little sun there was, each step quiet but commanding notice.

Sansa had never seen him before. She had heard, of course, in the roundabout way that gossip travelled through their siblings: Arya boasting of the beast, Rickon claiming he had once ridden on Ghost’s back, Bran insisting the animal was cleverer than most men. But she had dismissed it as exaggerations, the kind of stories that swelled with retelling. Ghost was no wild tangle of fur and teeth. He was composed, deliberate, and impossibly still when he paused, amber eyes fixed with an intelligence that unsettled her. He nosed at her hand once, with the faintest huff of breath, and then settled himself at her side.

Jon glanced at them, one brow raised. “He likes you.”

Sansa tried to make her voice dismissive, though it came out softer than intended. “Does he like everyone?”

“No,” Jon said simply.

She looked down at the creature again, pressed near her skirts, at the way his ears twitched to track the rhythm of her breathing. The admission slipped out before she could quite stop it. “I had a dog once. When I was younger.”

Ghost was warm against her leg, and Jon was walking with that infuriating, quiet patience, never pressing, never rushing, and suddenly she was back there again, fifteen years old, and the words came without her permission.

“I had Lady,” she said, and her voice sounded strange in her own ears. “She was mine. A white shepherd, all silk fur and soft eyes, the gentlest creature you could imagine. I thought—” she gave the faintest huff of a laugh “—I thought she was perfect. And maybe she was. Maybe that was her crime.”

The path blurred in front of her, grass giving way to gravel, trees leaning overhead like witnesses.

“It was Joffrey,” she went on, and even now the name felt like swallowing glass. “He wanted us to take them both to the river one afternoon. He, with his brute of a hound, I with Lady. I thought it was sweet, romantic, some sort of date. And I was so desperate to be seen with him — Joff, who could tilt his head and make every girl in school blush. I wanted to belong to that shine. I wanted to believe he had chosen me.”

She felt Jon stiffen beside her, a subtle tightening in the line of his shoulders, but enough for her to notice. He knew the name, of course. Everyone did. Joffrey Baratheon, perfect golden boy, first love turned first humiliation. Her fingers curled into her palm, nails pressing half-moons into her skin. She remembered it too vividly, the way her heart had stuttered when he asked her out, the way her friends had gasped, the envy in their eyes. She had been drunk on it, the sweetness of her dreams coming true, of being wanted by the boy everyone wanted. 

“Joff mocked her. Said Lady looked too delicate, like she belonged in a handbag instead of a yard. I thought he was teasing. That’s what I told myself as I laughed along, as if laughing meant I understood the rules of the game. But it wasn’t a game. He let his hound off the leash, just to see what would happen. And I—”

The memory roared up, sudden and merciless. Lady yelping, scrambling, her pale fur matted in seconds; Joffrey leaning against a tree, smirking, hands in his pockets as though it were all a show staged for his amusement.

“I tried to stop it. I screamed until my throat tore. She tried to fight, but she was never meant for that. And Joff only laughed. He laughed at me, at her, at both of us. He didn’t call it off until it was too late.” Her voice cracked, sharp and low. “And afterwards, he told me I was embarrassing myself. That if I wanted him to keep liking me, I shouldn’t make such a scene. As if Lady’s death was nothing. The only thing that mattered was how pretty I looked while I smiled.”

The words lodged in her chest, heavy and jagged. She had not told anyone this much in years — not Margaery, not even her mother. It had been easier to fold it away into a softer story, one that placed no blame, that spared her the humiliation of admitting how blind she had been. The scene replayed itself whether she wanted it to or not: Lady’s yelp, high and panicked; the savage snap of teeth; her own voice breaking as she screamed for him to stop. And Joffrey’s laughter above it all, lazy, amused, delighted, like the sound of glass shattering.

But with Ghost pressed steady at her side and Jon’s silence wrapping around her like something almost protective, it slipped out whole. Sansa hated the sting of it, hated the heat gathering behind her eyes, hated that, of all people, Jon Snow was the one to see it laid bare. Ghost nudged at her palm as if he sensed the tremor in her, and he meant to anchor her back to now. She let her hand rest there, sinking into his thick white coat, and for a dizzy moment, it was like Lady had returned to her, the same gentle weight, the same quiet loyalty.

“She died because I trusted the wrong boy.”

The words hung between them, raw and ugly, and all Sansa could hear was the rush of her own pulse in her ears. She had never told it like this before. Too humiliating, too naïve, too stupidly, blindly romantic to bear repeating. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, hard-edged in a way that startled her. “That wasn’t your fault, Sansa.”

She turned her head, almost involuntarily. His eyes met hers, dark, steady, burning with a fury so tightly leashed it almost hummed in the air between them. There was no pity there, no patronising softness.

“I hated you once,” she blurted out suddenly, surprising herself with the words. “When we were younger. You called me a brat with a princess complex. Do. . . do you remember?”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “I might’ve.”

“You did,” she insisted, the words rushing now that they’d begun. “And I never forgot it. Because you didn’t say it to be cruel. Cruelty, I could have dismissed. It was dismissal. You looked at me and decided I wasn’t worth hating properly.”

Jon shifted his weight, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. “Sansa—”

“And I suppose,” she went on, her voice tightening, “I hated you for being right.”

He was quiet for a moment, the sound of a football thudding against grass filling the space instead. Then he said, low, “Look, you weren’t wrong about me either. I wasn’t kind. I didn’t know what to do with you,” he admitted. “You were. . . bright, always shining, always noticed. And I wasn’t. Easier to push you aside than admit I didn’t belong. I was a stupid, angry kid, to tell the truth.”

Sansa’s arms tightened across her chest, though the chill of the evening had little to do with it. “And now?” she asked carefully.

“Still stubborn. Still angry sometimes. But not stupid, I hope.”

The corner of her mouth lifted despite herself, quick and fleeting. “That’s debatable.”

Jon huffed out a laugh, soft and short, as though he hadn’t expected her to give him even that. He shifted closer, boots crunching over the gravel path. “You’re still shining, though. I notice.”

Sansa froze at the words, unsure if he realised how they landed. She masked the silence with a dry tone. “Flattery doesn’t suit you, Jon. Leave it to the columnists.”

“I’m not flattering,” he said simply. “Just saying it how I see it.”

She shook her head. “I—” Her throat tightened again, but she forced the words free. “I’m sorry too, Jon. For the way I treated you. For the things I thought. For never trying to see you as anything but what I had decided you were.”

He studied her for a moment, something unreadable moving across his face. “We were kids. You don’t owe me for that.”

“I do,” she smiled lightly. “I suppose not many people would agree to be my fake boyfriend.” 

“Fake or not, you make it sound like a punishment.”

Sansa let out a quiet laugh, the tension loosening from her shoulders. “You say that as if the tabloids aren’t a battlefield. Most men I know would have run at the first headline.”

“Well, I like to think I’m not most men,” he said.

“No,” she admitted, tilting her head as she studied him. “You’re not.”

For a moment, their gazes held before Sansa shook her head again, as though to break the spell. “Well. You’ve survived this long, plus my mother and Aunt Lysa. Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”

Jon’s grin was fleeting, but real. “Guess we’ll see. If you want, we can be friends.”

She stared at him, startled into silence. It should have felt anticlimactic, so plain after everything she had poured out. But it didn’t. It felt steady like the ground beneath her had shifted, ever so slightly, and she could finally stand without wobbling.

Her lips curved, hesitant but genuine. “Friends, then.”

Ghost huffed once, as though in approval, pressing his side against her leg. 

They came to a small clearing where the grass stretched wide and damp, children darting after a ball that skittered unpredictably over the uneven ground. The shouts carried on the wind, shrill and earnest, and one boy tripped headlong into the mud while the others laughed and pulled him up. Sansa paused at the edge, her gaze lingering.

“You were never like that,” Jon said, nodding toward the game.

Sansa arched a brow, the faintest spark of her old hauteur slipping through. “Mud-smeared and tumbling about? No. My mother would have had apoplexy.”

Jon’s mouth curved, subtle but visible. “You wouldn’t have liked it anyway.”

She turned her gaze on him, sharp, but not unkind. “And what makes you so certain?”

“Because you like things neat,” he said simply. “Ordered. Predictable. You always have.”

It might have stung, once. She might have bristled at the implication, flung back some well-practised retort. But now, she only tilted her head, considering.

“Perhaps,” she allowed. “But there’s nothing wrong with wanting the world to be beautiful.” Her lips curved faintly. “Someone must, or else we would all live in mud.”

For a moment, the words lingered between them, lighter than before but no less true. Sansa found herself studying the slope of his shoulders, the way he stood, the utter lack of need to prove himself in any gesture. He was not golden. He was not dazzling. He was not Joffrey, or Harry, or any of the boys who had tried to shine so lustrously they scorched her. She thought, with an almost sweet pang, that perhaps she had been too quick to despise steadiness.