Chapter Text
The senior showcase is the most important performance of her life, so of course Loras hurts his ankle just as they begin rehearsals. It’s only for a month, maybe two, but Sansa still needs a partner to get started on choreo. She auditions what seems like the entire junior class over the course of a long, frustrating afternoon, without finding even a single guy remotely capable of what she needs.
“None of them can do a proper lift,” Sansa whines to Marg when she pokes her head in the studio to check on her. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Oh, sweetling, you’re just bigger than they’re used to,” Marg coos in sympathy. “Because you’re so tall.”
Sansa flushes. Marg is her friend, but at Casterly School of the Arts, even friends are competition—there are only so many open positions in the major companies, after all, which is why the senior showcase is so crucial. If she can’t find someone to stand in for Loras, she can kiss her chance at becoming a professional dancer goodbye.
She’s still sulking as she picks up Robb from rehearsals with his dance crew, the Direwolves, without even the energy to roll her eyes at Theon when he makes a comment about her tights. Her brother is sprawled out on a chair, surveying his little dance kingdom, with Jon Snow leaning against the wall beside him, eyes closed.
“Everyone was terrible,” Sansa announces, tossing her bag beside him. “I blame you.”
Her brother, the smug asshole, only laughs. “How is it my fault that Loras Tyrell was stupid enough to hurt himself dancing with Renly Baratheon?”
“If you helped me out….”
“Wish I could, San,” he says, and to his credit he really does look sorry, “but the Streets are coming up. We heard the Fury’s got a new leader who called war on us.”
Honestly, Robb’s decision to quit ballet to focus on street dance is as baffling to her now as it was a year ago. Like some underground (not to mention illegal) competition is more important than a shot at a job with a major dance company?
“Okay, but you should see some of these juniors. They’re hopeless.” Robb only looks amused as she launches into a rant about the complete uselessness of the underclassmen at school. But before Sansa can really get into her diatribe, Jon clears his throat. His eyes were closed so she didn’t think he was listening, but now they flicker open as he looks at her.
“I could help you out,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
Sansa looks him up and down, considering. He’s built like her brother, lean and athletic—and taller than her, which is pretty rare in her partners. “Do you even have any classical training?”
“Nope,” he shrugs. “But I’m a fast learner.”