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the price of you

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Jon was on his knees in the courtyard, one hand pressed against his face, the other trying to shield his ribs. Three against one. Joffrey Baratheon led the pack, blazer sleeves rolled up to his elbows, gold class ring catching the sunlight each time his fist came down. Meryn and Lancel laughed as they picked him up, holding his arms as Joffrey’s fist connected with Jon’s jaw.

School was letting out. Backpacks slammed shut, car doors opened, engines started. No one had stepped in, rarely anyone ever did. Sansa froze halfway down the steps, books clutched to her chest. She could hear the dull, wet sound of another hit. Jon’s head snapped sideways, dark hair sticking to his cheek. When his dark eyes lifted, they met hers.

Something in her stomach turned over, guilt or fear, something nameless that gnawed at her. She should move, say something, call for a teacher even–anything.

“Sansa!”

Her brother’s voice cut through her thoughts and she turned to see Robb behind the wheel of his convertible, the afternoon sun bounced off of the polished white hood. He waved her over, impatient, the picture of every privilege they’d been born into.

She hesitated for one more breath, the crowd’s laughter and Jon’s blood on the pavement locked into a memory she wished she could merely forget. She turned away almost reluctantly and crossed the lawn. She slid into the passenger seat as Robb kept his eyes ahead, refusing to even glance back toward the fight. The music was already on. The world kept moving.

[this is a WIP enemies to lovers jonsa au with a 50k+ word count]

“Scarlett! You’re up next! Hurry your ass up before you miss your song!”

Sansa flinched at the sound, echoing through the dark bathroom like a gunshot. She blinked hard and ran her fingers beneath her eyes. The red light of the restroom painted everything the same shade–the black tiles, the sinks streaked with glitter, the shaking fingers that traced her lips.

Despite the dim light she could still see the damage, mascara bleeding down her pale cheeks, lipstick smeared at the corner of her mouth. She meant to fix it five minutes before, but time had had a way of slipping through her lately.

“I’ll be out in a minute!”

Her voice didn’t sound like hers anymore–it was raspier, lower, a voice that belonged to Scarlett, not Sansa Stark. She leaned close to the mirror to look over herself once more before tugging the sash of her cheap satin robe so that it parted slightly. She forced herself to smile into the mirror, and for a small second she almost looked convincing.

Almost.

She took a breath and stepped out into the gentlemen’s club and looked around the open area. It smelled a mix of cigarette smoke and fruit scented perfume as one of the girls slowly began to pick up her tips from the stage.

It wasn’t supposed to be her life.

She’d once imagined herself anywhere else in the world. Studying abroad, working on her master’s degree, maybe living in France for a year. Anywhere but there. Anything but in a strip club in the south side of Chicago.

But that’d been before everything had fallen apart.

Before her father was led away in handcuffs on drug-trafficking charges that everyone knew were lies. Ned Stark had been Robert Baratheon’s lawyer, and he’d gotten too close to something for Cersei Lannister’s liking. So she’d had him framed, and the man who’d once been the most respectable defense attorney in the city was then inmate 37261 at Stateville.

Then Catelyn had died–heart attack, the doctors had said. More like heartbreak.

After that it’d just been Sansa and Robb, both too young and too proud, and suddenly responsible for Arya, Bran, and Rickon. The cars went first. Then the house. Then every piece of jewelry, every purse, every silk dress that had once hung in Sansa’s closet. Anything that could keep the lights on for one more month.

Robb worked odd end jobs, security, construction–anything he could get his hands on. Sansa handled the house, the cooking, the bills, the endless repairs on rentals that should have been condemned years ago. At night while the others slept, she put lipstick and platform heels to become someone else.

Robb never asked how she got the money. They couldn’t afford to.

The Red Keep was its own kind of kingdom–high ceilings washed in crimson light, mirrored walls, and something that smelled metallic that never seemed to leave her skin. The customers called it exotic, Sansa called it a means to survive.

They loved her because she was the illusion they couldn’t buy anywhere else.

Scarlett was clean and untouchable. The farthest she ever went was topless–never more, no matter how much money they offered. They offered plenty. They all wanted to be the man who made her break her own rule, to see her as no one else did.

She never did.

And they still came back for her. Day after day to offer her a glass of champagne before she would dance for them like she meant it. She commanded the single pole on stage as if the room belonged to her, her movements were deliberate, graceful, with a performance of power that made men forget they’d come to take it from her.

That night her knees ached, as they often did. The bruises never healed before new ones bloomed. She'd thought about buying kneepads–cheap ones from a sports store–but she didn’t know if the other girls would laugh. Maybe they would. Maybe she didn’t care anymore.

By the time the bar shut down, the crowd had thinned to stragglers counting their last singles and the faint buzz of a neon sign flickered to life above the exit. For a Wednesday night it’d been good–better than good. Rent was due and she made more than rough to keep the landlord from banging on the door again.

Sandor was waiting for her by the back exit. The Hound, everyone called him. Broad shoulders filling the doorway, jacket collar turned up against the cold. He walked each of the girls to their cars, a quiet routine of protection that he never made a show of.

“Long night.” He muttered, lighting a cigarette.

“They’re all long.” She said as she rubbed at her arms.

He gave her a once over.

“You’re losing weight again. You need to eat something that isn’t liquid and poured in a rocks glass.”

“I need a lot of things.” She said lightly, giving him a tired smile as she pulled out her keys to unlock her car.

He blew out smoke into the freezing air. “Start with food and the rest can wait.”

It wasn’t much, but the words were kind, and kindness seemed to be a rare thing those days. Sandor was one of the few who was a friend without expecting anything in return.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Get home safe, little bird.”

The heater coughed when she turned the key, pushing out air that was barely warm. But the cold helped. It kept her awake and focused on the road instead of the ache in her legs of the glitter still stuck on her cheeks. She was exhausted but grateful. The night had been good. She’d be back the next day to do it all over again.

It was a half hour drive home to the South Side to the worn out edge of the city. She preferred the distance. The farther she needed to drive, the less chance there was of ever running into someone she knew–or Robb knew. By the time she pulled up to the house, the street was quiet, just the hum of a passing train in the distance and the soft hiss of wind pushing through the broken fence. The porch light had gone out again and she made a mental note to fix it, even though she probably wouldn’t.

Inside, it was dark. Quiet.

Arya and Bran’s shoes were scattered in the hallway, one of them flipped upside down, the other caked in dried mud. Rickon’s unfinished math homework laid open on the dining table, numbers smudged in pencil. She would have to get up early to help him finish before school. Three hours of sleep if she was lucky.

Robb’s work uniform was on the floor by the washer, still dusted with sawdust from a job site. She gathered it up automatically, the motions so familiar that her body did them before her mind caught up. The washing machine rattled when she turned it on as if it would fall apart next.

Upstairs, she found Bran and Rickon’s bedroom door cracked open. The faint glow of plastic stars dotted the ceiling, a tiny universe above their heads. Rickon had kicked his stuffed wolf onto the floor, she picked it up and tucked it back beside him. His hair was soft beneath her fingertips, wild as always and in need of a trim. She smoothed it gently, then closed the door until the latch clicked to keep the heat in.

Her own room was at the end of the hall. Theon was asleep in her bed, one arm thrown over the pillow, snoring lightly. She was grateful he was asleep, she didn’t want to talk. The thought of showering crossed her mind, but exhaustion won. She pulled one of Theon’s shirts off of the floor after stripping down and tossed over her head before crawling in on the other side of the bed. Her sheets were the only nice thing she had left–soft lilac egyptian cotton, worn thin but comforting with a reminder of the world that’d once been clean and bright. She pulled the duvet up to her shoulder and closed her eyes.

The mattress shifted a moment later, Theon rolled over and pressed against her back. His hand fell to her hip and worked its way up her stomach slowly until his fingers traced a lazy circle beneath the curve of her breast.

“I’m too tired.” She whispered.

He sighed, annoyed, and rolled onto his back. She rolled to her side and watched him rub his face, the sound of silent frustration thickening the room. He was always like that when she came home. Jealous, uneasy but unwilling to do anything to change it.

They’d been together for three years, long enough for the lover–or whatever it’d been–to dissolve into habit. She wasn’t sure why she still kept him around. Perhaps it was easier than being alone. Perhaps it was the familiarity.

“Your dipshit brother wouldn’t listen to me tonight.” Theon muttered suddenly, voice thick with irritation and sleep.

Sansa blinked, already half asleep. “Rickon?”

“Yeah. He wouldn’t go to bed. Kept running up and down the hall like a maniac. I told him to knock it off, but he just laughed. Said I wasn’t his brother.”

She sighed. “He’s nine. He’s just been through a lot. It’s just a phase.”

“It's an annoying phase.” Theon said, sitting up. “Makes it really hard to put up with him.”

She pushed herself up on the elbow, the sheets pooling at her waist. “I’m sorry.” She said quietly. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

Theon was already pulling his shirt back on, movements stiff as he turned away from her.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.” He didn’t look over at her when he said it, merely stood and buttoned his pants.

Sansa watched him for a long moment, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her chest. She didn’t have the energy to fight, not that night.

“Theon.” She said softly, causing him to pause at the door.

She opened the blankets back up, a tired invitation. “Come back to bed.”

He looked over her, his eyes hungry as he hesitated for a moment before turning around.

The light from the street slipped through the broken blinds, painting thin silver lines across the wall as he came back to her.

***

The house smelled faintly of coffee and laundry detergent, the old radiator clanged to life like it was coughing up its final breath. Sansa was sitting at the table, wrapped in a robe that’d once been white and soft but then gray and stained. Steam curled from the chipped mug in her hands. She usually took her coffee with cream, but all they had left in the fridge was milk, and just enough of that to stretch over three bowls of cereal.

“Arya sat at the table, half in her chair and half on it, one foot propped beneath her. “Coach says if I make it through the next two practices, I can move up to the older group.” She said, mouth full of an off brand version of captain crunch. “But my skates are falling apart. Leathers cracking right here.” She held up her foot for demonstration, shoe untied.

Sansa forced a smile. “We’ll get it taken care of soon.”

Arya seemed content with the response and went back to scraping her spoon against the bowl.

“Wake Bran for me, okay? You can’t miss the bus today, I have to save gas.”

“Got it.” Arya said as she hopped down from her chair. She shoved the cereal bowl toward the middle of the table, still half full with milk sloshing over the edge as she took off for the stairs.

Rickon stayed behind, pencil tapping against his math worksheet. His brow furrowed in concentration, then lit up with triumph. “I got it! Forty-two!”

“Good job.” Sansa said softly.

She glanced at ARya’s abandoned bowl, lifted it, and poured the leftover milk in her coffee. A stray marshmallow floated to the top, she stirred it absently and took a sip just as the front door opened.

Robb stepped inside, the February cold trailed behind him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days–eyes ribbed red, shoulders slumped–but he still took the time to kick off his muddy work boots and leave them neatly at the door.

“Hey,” he called out, voice rough.

“Hey.”

He crossed the room and bent to pull her in a half hug, the kind you give when you’re far too tired to stand properly. His jacket smelled like sawdust and gasoline.

“How’s the math going, Rickon?” Robb asked, turning to the table.

“Sansa’s helped a lot.” Rickon said proudly, waving his completed homework in the air.

“Good man.” Robb reached for a mug from the cabinet and poured himself coffee. Sansa frowned.

“You really need to sleep, Robb.” She chided. “You just got home. Go to bed.”

“I will.” He leaned against the counter. “I’ve got an interview in a couple hours. Some side work. Might be enough to help with the electric bill.”

Sansa sighed and wrapped her hands tighter around her mug. “We’ll keep it at sixty for a little. It’ll be fine.”

He looked down at his coffee, the lines in his face deepening. The silence that followed was heavier than the cold.

“Robb,” she said quietly. “Don’t. You can’t keep working like this. You’ll kill yourself.”

“We need the money, Sans.”

“And we need you here more.” She answered quickly. “Go to bed. I’ll take care of it.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just stared into his cup for a moment before dumping it back into the pot. Finally he nodded, slow and reluctant.

“Yeah.” He murmured. “Alright.”

The moment broke with a thud from upstairs–heavy footsteps pounding down the hall.

Bran appeared at the top of the steps, scowling with his backpack half-zipped. “Where’s my jacket?”

“Where you left it.” Sansa called back, already half raised from her chair. “Hurry up. I don’t want you missing the bus!”

Bran muttered something under his breath, grabbed his jacket from the bannister and stopped down the steps.

Sansa watched him go as her coffee went cold in her hands, the sound of the radiator filling the space he left behind. When the bus finally pulled away, Sansa crawled back into her then empty bed. She didn’t mean to fall asleep, she just meant to rest her eyes for a moment.

She slept like the dead. The alarm on her phone blared that it was two in the afternoon, the noise cutting into her skull like a knife. She dragged herself up, blinking against the gray light that filtered through the curtains. Her whole body felt heavy, like she’d been buried beneath the blankets instead of lying on top of them.

The house was quiet, save the sound of Robb snoring faintly in his shoebox of a bedroom. She stripped the beds, swept the floors and washed the dishes. By the time she made it to the shower, her knees felt as if they were made of glass. The hot water helped slightly, but only until she stepped out again into the frigid room. By four, she had the oven going.

The kids called it raccooning–Sansa’s word for throwing together whatever scraps she could find in the pantry and calling it dinner. Tonight was canned chicken mixed with half a bag of frozen peas, poured over instant mashed potatoes and sprinkled with the last bag of pretzels she crushed out with a rolling pin.

Arya found it funny, as did Rickon. They laughed at the crunch and debated on how much a raccoon would like Sansa’s dinner for the night. Bran didn’t laugh–he stared at his plate for a long time before sitting down.

When Sansa sat out his plate, he frowned. “This isn’t dinner, Sansa. This is–”

“It’s what we have.” She said gently, cutting him off. “Eat it while it’s still hot.”

He didn’t move. The air between them went still. Arya was still talking about practice to Rickon who was drumming his spoon against the table. Bran stood and walked to the counter by the kitchen, voice low enough that the others couldn’t hear.

“I want to get a job.”

Sansa looked at him. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, Sansa. I can help. I’m tired of this–of eating scraps, of watching you and Robb kill yourselves just to keep the lights on. If I can get a job, I can–”

“No.” She said again, firmer that time. “You need to focus on school. You’re smart, Bran. you could get a scholarship. That’s how you get out of this mess.”

He clenched his jaw. “Maybe I don’t want to get out. Maybe I just want us to stop starving.”

Before she could answer, Robb came into the kitchen. He looked at the scene and then to Sansa. Sansa handed him a bowl of food.

“Where’s yours?”

“I ate while I was cooking.” She lied.

Bran turned to him immediately. “Tell her I should be able to get a job.”

Robb took a bite, chewed slowly, and then said, “no.”

Bran’s face tightened. He didn’t say another word–just stalked down the hall, the sound of his bedroom door slammed echoing through the house.

Sansa exhaled and pinched the bridge of her nose while she leaned against the counter. Robb rubbed a hand over his face for a moment before taking a few more big bites.

“I gotta get out of here soon.”

She looked up sharply. “I thought you had the night off.”

“I did.” He said. “Boss called and said I could pick up OT if I wanted.”

Sansa's stomach sank. She had to leave for the club in two hours. Theon was out of the question, despite her invitation the night before, he’d left before the others had woken up. She wasn’t willing to let him back in so quickly. Calling off wasn’t an option. She took a breath and fought to show the anxiety pumping through her body.

“Okay. Your uniform is on the dryer.”

Sansa watched Robb’s car pull out of the icy driveway before calling Talisa.

“Hey Sansa.” Talisa answered on the second ring. She could hear her shift around. “What’s up?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” Sansa shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s just…can you come over for a few hours? I know it’s last minute–I’m sorry.”

Talisa was there twenty minutes later. She was grateful for Talisa, she’d only known her for the past year and a half Robb had dated her, but she was kind. Sansa was already dressed, her work bag already slung over her shoulder.

“Thank you for doing this.” Sansa said, tugging on a beanie. “If you want some cash–”

“No way.” Talisa rolled her eyes as she peeled off her scarf. “I’ll just stay and if Robb asks I’ll tell him that my moms drunk again.”

Sansa hesitated, guilt burning in her chest. “If they give you any trouble just–”

“I’ve got them.” Talisa said gently. She held up the plastic shopping bag at her side. “I have leftover pizza. Someone never picked it up and I’m the only one that likes mushrooms there.”

“Thanks, Talisa.” Sansa squeezed her arm quickly before slipping out the door.

The Red Keep was already alive when she arrived. Music puled through the walls, heavy and low, the kind of bass that you could feel in your body before you heard it. Sansa slipped through the back entrance, hanging her coat in her locker before changing. The mirror by the vanity reflected the faint sheen of exhaustion that still clung to her, but the lights always dimmed that–they turned her into something brighter, softer, less real.

She hit the floor just as the DJ cued her first song. A few regulars waved her over afterwards, the same men who always bought overpriced drinks just to have her linger a few minutes longer. She smiled and laughed in the right places, let one of them kiss her hand. The rhythm carried her from one stage set to the next, and she danced until her knees ached again, the lights glinting off the emerald silk of her lingerie, a matching bra and garter set edged with black lace.

When her set ended, she made her way toward the front entrance where the cold from outside seeped in under the door. Sandor was there, leaning against the wall in his usual stance, broad shoulders, scarred face, a cigarette balanced between his fingers. She slipped onto the barstool beside him. “Got one to spare?”

He passed her the pack without a word, lighting it for her when she struggled with the cheap lighter she found on the desk. They shared a cigarette in silence.

“You good?” He asked eventually.

“Define good.” She muttered, exhaling through her nose.

He gave her a grunt that sounded more like a laugh.

Petyr Baelish slipped through the velvet curtains. He looked perfectly composed as always in a charcoal suit and red tie, not a hair out of place. He was polished performance, every detail curated. When his eyes found her, they lingered in a way that always seemed to make her stomach twist.

“Sansa he said smoothly, as if her name tasted good on his tongue.

“Petyr.” She answered, her tone careful and neutral. She shifted on the barstool, suddenly aware of how the emerald silk clung to her hips

“A word?” He asked.

“Then say it.”

He smiled at her, as if he were amused by her bluntness. “Someone’s request a private room with you. Fifteen minutes. Just a dance.”

Sansa’s stomach turned. “You know I don’t do privates.”

“I know.” He said easily. “And I’ve always respected that, haven’t I? But this client–he’s…insistent. Paid eight hundred. That’s before whatever he decides to tip you afterwards.”

Sansa fell still. The private rooms were the clubs worst-kept secret. What happened in them wasn’t her business, though she’d seen enough girls come out with smeared lipstick and shaking hands to know the truth.

“No, I don’t want to do it.” She shook her head. “Ask someone else.”

He spread his hands, “he asked for you specifically.”

Her chest tightened at the thought. “I’m not the only redhead in here–ask Nyx. I’m sure she’d be more than happy.”

“He’s paid more than anyone here makes in a three days for fifteen minutes of your time. You’d be foolish not to consider it.”

Sansa looked away, staring at the cigarette between her fingers until it burned to the filter. Eight hundred. The number pulsed in her head like a neon sign.

The electric bill. Bran’s face at dinner. The hollow fridge.

She took a slow breath through her nose. “And you swear that’s all he wants? Just a dance?”

Petyr’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “He made that very clear.”

Sansa wasn’t sure if she truly believed him, but nodded anyway. “Fine.” She refused to meet his gaze. “I’ll do it.”

It felt like a piece of her died with the words.

“Good girl.” Petyr murmured as he straightened, his rings glimmered in the light as he adjusted his suit jacket. “There’s one condition. He asked that you wear this.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a strip of silk–black and soft, smooth as water. A blindfold.

The color drained from her already pale face. “He wants me blindfolded?”

“It’s his rule.” Petyr said lightly. “I’ll have Sandor right outside your door. If you scream, it’s over. Sandor will be inside before the man has time to blink.”

Sandor gave her a small, short nod.

Sansa stared at the blindfold before reaching out to take it from his hand.

“Alright.”

Petyr smiled, satisfied. “Room six. Five minutes.”

He turned and disappeared into the darkened hallway, leaving a scent of expensive cologne and power in his wake. Sansa looked down at the blindfold again, the fabric soft against her fingertips.

When she finally tied it around her hand and stood up, her legs felt as if they didn’t belong to her. Sandor waited at the end of the hall, one hand resting on the doorframe of room six. The corridor was darker there, the music from the main floor redacted to a dull, pulsing echo.

Sansa paused beside him, the black silk blindfold clutched in her hand. He studied her face. His scared caught the red light from the sign above the door. Then silently he gave her a small nod–a reminder that he’d be not far off.

With a shaky breath, she lifted the blindfold and tied it over her eyes. The world disappeared. The air inside was cooler, quieter. She could smell the faint traces of smoke and expensive cologne, the kind that didn’t belong in that part of town. Her heart pounded so violently that she could hear it in her ears.

She knew the rooms, small with a single chair, a low table, soft red light. She didn’t need sight to find her way. She kept her head high, forcing calm into her steps as her heels clicked against the floor.

“Hello.” She called out softly.

Silence.

She swallowed, irritation threading through her nerves. “Did you…do you want a specific song for this?”

“No.”

The voice was low, quiet. Not unkind–but final.

Sansa hesitated, then took another step forward until she felt the air shift, warm and close. He was sitting. She could tell by the sound of his breathing, the faint rustle of fabric. Her pulse raced. It was a job. Fifteen minutes.

She found his shoulder with her fingertips, though he didn’t move. She slid the other down his other arm, over muscle that felt solid under her touch–restrained and still.

He didn’t touch her as she danced, not once.

The silence pressed harder against her ears until she couldn’t bear it. She reached for his hands, but found them gloved and placed them lightly on her waist, his fingers moved with a strange hesitance–tracing her shape without fully claiming it. The leather felt cool against her skin–nice almost.

“What’s with the blindfold?” She asked, forcing her voice steady as she undid the clasp on the front of her bra so that her breasts sprang free, turning so that her bare back was against his chest–more leather and a cotton shirt. “Some kind of kink you have?”

Still no answer.

She exhaled slowly, pulling his hand slowly up her rib cage. His breath was warm against the side of her neck, still too close, still too quiet.

And his voice–that voice–finally broke the silence.

“Ned Stark would be less than pleased to know his daughter is dancing at the Red Keep.” He said evenly.

The sound of his voice hit her like icewater. Sansa froze, every muscle locking. Her heart stopped, then lurched. She felt like she was going to be sake. Sansa tore at the knot behind her head, ripping the blindfold free as she turned in his lap. The red light stabbed her eyes as she blinked hard, the shadows taking shape in front of her.

He was sitting in the chair beneath her–older then, broader in the shoulders, the lines of his face sharpened but unmistakable.

Jon.

His dark eyes met hers, steady and unreadable.

The shame came all at once like a freezing cold wave crashing into her body. Her balance faltered, a sharp heel slipping on the carpet. Jon moved before she could fall, his hands closing around her arms.

“Careful.”

The contact burned. She tore free the moment she found her footing.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” She snapped, voice trembling in anger. “It’s none of your business what I do–or my father’s. I’m keeping my family out of the streets.”

Jon’s jaw tightened in what looked like annoyance. “Ned made it my business.” He answered flatly. “Believe me, I’d rather be anywhere else than here with you in this room.”

The words struck her harder than she expected. Her face flushed hot, then cold. She crossed her arms over her chest, instinctively trying to cover herself, though Jon’s gaze stayed fixed on her face, never straying lower.

“You’ve come a long way from a silver spoon in your mouth to this.”

She felt like she was going to dry heave. “What do you want, Jon? Why pay that much just to humiliate me?”

He leaned back slightly, the chair creaking beneath him. For a moment, she saw a flash of the boy who had lived in her house–the quiet one at the edge of every family picture, the one her mother never quite trusted. Ned had brought him home one summer without any explanation and told everyone he’d be staying for a while. That ‘while’ turned to three years. Sansa remembered the arguments behind closed doors, her mother’s hissed questions about who he truly was.

Jon’s expression didn’t change. “I made your father a promise.” He answered. “To take care of his family while he’s inside. I intend to keep it.”

She gave him a small bitter laugh. “You’re going to take care of us? What are you going to do? Just hand me money?”

He laughed then too, but it was humorless. “The far opposite.” He reached in his jacket and pulled out a folded bill. “I’ll help you, Sansa. But if you take my money, you do what I tell you. Anything I tell you. Whether it’s running an errand, washing a car, or something that gets your hands dirty. You will do it. No questions asked. Zero hesitation.”

Her stomach lurched. “You’re not serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

“You think I’d agree to that?” She hissed, voice nearly cracking. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust you’d be willing to do that.”

“I don’t care if you trust me or not.” Jon said simply, picking one of her hairs off of his white shirt before letting it drop to the floor. “But I can at least say I’ve made the effort to help you. I don’t care which you pick.”

“Go to hell,” she whispered, snatching her bra up off of the floor, which she replaced with shaking hands as she stared at the floor. “I don’t need your charity.”

Jon’s mouth twitched in what could have been a smile, or perhaps it was pity. He extended the bill towards her anyway.

“Then take it for the dance at least.”

Her pride screamed no, but her hand moved before she could stop herself. She snatched the money from his fingers, clutching it tight like it might burn her skin.

“Call me if you get sick of all of this.” He said as he stood.

A small white card slipped from the bill as he brushed past her, landing face up, a name and a number. When the door closed behind him, Sansa was with the low hum of the red lights and the sound of her own heartbeat.

She stared at the card for a long while before bending to pick it up.

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