Chapter Text
“What do you mean you can’t find it anymore?” Jon asked, horror blooming across his face in a way that would’ve been funny if she wasn’t currently in mortal danger. Its very unlikely that he would kill her but the ring is supposed to be expensive, and money makes people do idiotic things. She can't say she is out of woods, yet.
“I lost it. I can’t find it anymore. I’m sorry, I swear I kept it inside my bedside drawer.” Sansa’s voice wobbled at the edges.
She watched him drag a hand down his face. This is serious, but the situation she is in is not so much. Hell, had it happened to someone? She would be laughing her ass off.
“I can’t believe this. How am I supposed to propose to Val without a bloody ring?” He began pacing, running fingers through that stupid, perpetually windswept hair of his. “I can’t believe you lost it.”
Just how unreliable he thinks she is? It's almost insulting. She has kept some of very cool secrets and things safe with her. Robb's her witness.
“Orrr you could like… not propose to her?” She offered, wincing the moment he stopped pacing. Not her brightest idea but its better than admitting her own fault, isn't it? Its not like she is actively sabotaging his engagment to someone.... else.
He looked at her like she’d just suggested arson. She might as well. He hurts her pride sometimes without knowing.
She crossed her arms tighter over her chest, subtly turning her body. Making sure her left hand stayed hidden. No need to state the obvious. Sansa hadn’t lost the ring.
It was currently on her finger.
In her defense, it was beautiful. Delicate gold band. Stunning princess diamond cut. So very.... Val. She had only slipped it on to see how it looked. Just to test. Purely academic curiosity. She was, after all, a connoisseur of all beautiful things.
Some things. Some people. Exceptions apply.
Jon and her went back to kindergarten. Diaper-friends. He practically grew up in her house and she in his. Shared cereal bowls, shared secrets, shared everything.
But lets also face the fact that she was—only slightly—in love with him. Maybe a little. Or maybe a lot.
He had no idea. Because men are spectacularly useless at noticing things unless they’re fictional geniuses with canes like Doctor House or violins like Sherlock Holmes. Definitely not the Jon Snow types, happily clueless. Its not necessarily bad thing in long run.
It hadn’t even felt dangerous. Not until Val.
“Sansa,” Jon warned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stepped closer. Exasperated. Studying her face like he could read her.
As if.
She licked her lower lip, sliding her hands into the pockets of her shorts.
“Jon, seriously? You met her a few months ago and suddenly she’s your soulmate?” She tilted her head, lips pressing into a thin line. “Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe the gods don’t want you to marry her.”
His eyes narrowed. And there it was. That almost-smile. The corner of his mouth twitching before he forced it down.
“Huh.” He took a step forward.
She took one back.
“So you know what the gods want now?”
Another step.
Wall.
Great.
“Listen—” she started, brain buffering under the intensity of his stare. Pick a struggle, Sansa. Speak or breathe.
“You what?” His hand slipped into the pocket of her shorts. Her breath hitched. Not because it was sexy.
Okayyy. It was a little sexy. She was genuinely glitching. But mostly because she was panicking.
He pulled her hand out and placed it flat against his chest. Over his heartbeat.
“So the gods want me to marry you?” he asked quietly. Touchè
Her lungs stopped cooperating. She felt like wolf in sheep's clothing that's caught in headlights. It doesn't make sense but it does make some of sense in her mind.
“If my ring on your finger is any indication… maybe that’s it, sweetheart.” She is definitely not imagining the hoarse in his tone. It's there.
He stepped closer. Their noses brushed. She could feel his breath hovering against her lips. This was either a dream or a cruel social experiment.
“Maybe…” she whispered, shrugging faintly. “Wouldn’t be so bad. If you ask me.”
“Mhmm.” He tucked a strand of her red hair behind her ear. So gently that it was infuriating, if you ask her. “If you wanted me to marry you, all you had to do was say the word.”
She gaped looking up at him and saw it. The amusement. Dancing. Teasing.
Oh.
She shoved him back with the hand still on his chest. “As if! You are shamless. And gross, I wouldn't want to marry you.”
He broke. Laughed. At her.
“You should’ve seen your face. I swear I had you.”
Sansa crossed her arms again, cheeks warm despite herself. She hated that he could do that. Make her weak in the knees. Sometimes she thinks he pretends to be obtuse but he isn't actually and he knows what it does to her. Ignorance is bliss, right? Maybe that's his card.
“Hand me the ring,” Jon said, extending his palm. Once he had stopped laughing that is.
“I can’t.”
She looked away.
Because she was furious. At him. At herself. At her jelly knees.
“Why not?” His grin turned wicked. “You really want to marry me?”
“No. And no.” Liar. “It’s stuck.”
She thrust her hand toward him. The diamond glinted traitorously. The ring sitting there snugly like it belonged there.
“I’ve tried everything. Soap. Lotion. Cold water. This bloody ring—” she wiggled her finger helplessly “—won’t come off.”
Jon stared at it.
Then at her.
Then he started laughing. Again.
“It’s not funny!” she snapped, glaring at him. “Stop laughing!”
He was still laughing. To whoever thinks he is broody should look at him now. Far from it. She would even call him a menace.
She huffed and stormed out of the room.
“Wait!”
She heard his footsteps behind her.
Honestly? Fine. Fine.
To hell with Jon Snow and his stupid hair and his stupid smile and everything he stands for.