#jonsa ff

“Two days at court, and still the king has not shown up to receive Lady Margaery. Perhaps the Tyrells really aren’t as powerful as they let on.” Myranda flicked open her fan with a vengeance, a trickle of sweat tracing down her hairline as she observed Margaery holding her parasol so it shaded Loras more than herself, while her brother, Garlen, and his wife, Leonette, sipped lemonade on either side.     

An oppressive heat had settled over the city overnight, turning the red stones of the keep to burning coals, and wilting everything else, indiscriminately. 

This had not stopped the princess, however, from holding court beneath the sun’s glare. 

The flower arrangements withered in their vases, the peerage’s hair collectively lost several inches of volume, and every lord and lady unfortunate enough to have traveled with only their autumnal silks had to suffer in silence as they sweat through their brocade. 

Ostensibly, there was to be a performance—a parade of animals, recently brought over from Essos to join the princess’s menagerie, though Sansa imagined the tigers would be as loath to march beneath the midday sun as the rest of them were. The heat was making her irritable. She disliked the feeling of her palm sweating against the lacquered wood of her fan that she kept closed at her side. 

“It’s not just Margaery he hasn’t publicly received,” Anya remarked. “Stannis Baratheon has arrived as well, and I hear he’s fuming at the king’s absence.”

Randa snorted. “He certainly isn’t being subtle with his intentions, with the way he’s parading his daughter about. Poor thing. With that face, I’d never leave my chambers, let alone agree to half the peerage seeing me. No amount of powder can cover that, especially in this heat.”

Sansa watched the young woman standing just behind her father, the marred side of her face tilted into the slip of shade offered by a bougainvillea climbing the wall beside her, her eyes trained at her feet, ignoring the wide berth the other courtiers left her as they all waited for Daenerys to invite them beneath her canopied pergola; the only true respite from the relentless sun. Unfortunately, the princess had seemingly lost all sense of decorum or duty ever since a garishly dressed, blue-haired Tyroshi man had gone down on one knee before her and presented a violently orange monkey. It now sat perched on Daenerys’s delicate shoulder, eating berries from her hand as she joked with the man. 

Rage trickled down Sansa’s spine. 

“Shireen Baratheon is the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, and until our king sires a son of his own, she is the likeliest heir to the Iron Throne. Myranda, you may have a beauty that turns the heads of even the highest lords but you’ll never rise higher than the daughter of a steward. No amount of powder can cover that up either.” She didn’t look away from Shireen, or wait for Myranda’s reply. “Have there been any sightings of Lord Manderly’s ships, Lord Royce?”

After a rather violent clearing of the throat, the old man replied. 

“I’ve heard nothing my lady, and I’ve got a boy paid to wait at the docks until they’ve arrived.” 

“I don’t understand how the council is set to begin on the morrow and the Warden of the North isn’t present.” 

“I don’t understand how the council is set to begin on the morrow and the king isn’t present,” Anya said. “Do you think something happened? His grace held a feast when you arrived, did he not? Now, he suddenly can’t be bothered to receive the very lords his reign depends on?” 

Sansa ignored the older woman’s gaze, fixating instead on the princess, who cut a strawberry in two with her own teeth, before pressing each half languidly to the golden monkey’s black mouth.  

Petyr used to press fruit to her lips too—when he called her daughter, and pulled her chair too close at the breakfast table. 

“The king is throwing a feast for all the high lords tonight, Anya. I’m sure everyone will get the reception they are due at that time.” 

“Still, it’s strange. You’d think he’d be using every possible moment to rub elbows and grease wheels before the real business of the council begins.” 

“We have no reason to suspect he’s not, behind closed doors.” 

“With whom? No one that I’ve spoken with has seen him since the morning of Robb’s arrival.”  Anya’s gaze bore a hole in Sansa’s temple until at last she met the older woman’s stare with a slow blink of her own. She’d said nothing of Jon’s midnight proposal and offered no explanation for the boarded up panel along her bedroom wall. 

There was nothing to say. The air grew too thick.  

“The Princess of Dorne is not present,” Myranda whispered. “Perhaps the king’s business is with her.”

“Ah,” Anya sighed, opening her own fan. “If that is the case, the king may be conducting important business indeed—perhaps the most important kind.”

Hot air puffed at Sansa’s face. She swore it smelled of mint. She hated mint.

“What would it mean for us if he names her his queen?” Myranda asked.

“Nothing.” 

“The Vale has no relationship with Dorne,” Anya answered, when it was clear Sansa wouldn’t elaborate. “At best, it means we stand exactly as we do today. Though, I expect whatever sense of kinship the king has for our lady that Sansa has not already destroyed, will only fade further beneath the brilliances of that Dornish sun. They say she is a great beauty.” 

“Who is this ‘they’ everyone is always speaking of?” Sansa wondered aloud. “And what gives them so much authority?”

The chilly morning air greeted Sansa Stark that morning as she stepped outside the ornamented carriage that transported her and her siblings to church that day, she released a huff and pulled her emerald silk shawl more tightly around her body as she tried to keep with her fast-paced mother. Catelyn Stark walked with her head held high as a flock of children trailed behind her.

“The preacher’s family must always be the first to arrive” She always said whenever one of the children asked to be left behind as they buried their noses in their bedsheets Sundays before mass.

They arrived just as their father was finishing up the touches of his lecture on the front dais; he gave them a warm smile before signaling for them to seat in the front pew. Sansa felt a surge of love towards her father before her cheeks colored with shame as she lifted up her skirt in order to sit and last night’s dream came back to her.

There’s a reason why the eldest Stark daughter has deep dark circles underneath her eyes and exhaustion marred on her face. It’s been weeks since she’s been able to have a full night of sleep; a dream haunts her nights and leaves her thrilled and ashamed in equal measure the next morning.

The dream is always the same: it starts with her sitting in the dark wood bench that rests in front of the old piano placed in the music room of their home. She is all alone in there, the night has fallen already and she’s playing the piano that has been her companion since she was old enough to sit in the bench. She is completely enraptured with a melody she has never heard before when she feels a presence behind her, she knows someone is standing just a few feet from her but she doesn’t dare to look back.

Soon, the melody she is playing starts being hummed by the person behind her, he’s a man and before she realizes it he is kneeling next to her. She feels exhilarated and frightened at the same time, he wears a dark cloak and keeps his head bowed so she can’t see his face but she can see his pale hand as he starts touching her leg, making a burning sensation start spreading in there.  She feels his breath across her skin and soon wetness starts pooling between her legs. He never stops humming even as his fingers busy themselves with the ache inside her, her fingers ache to touch him and with a mind of its own they move towards his cloak but just as he starts rising his head she wakes up.

It leaves her shaking every time. A part of her craves to see him, to feel him but another is terrified of the emotions he evokes in her, of the powerless he makes her when he’s touching her, most nights she doesn’t even know if she wants him to show up or just leave her alone. This is why she can barely look at her father in the eyes today; because she can still feel the remnants of her dream and knows how sinful that makes her, she knows how ashamed her mother would be if she knew what she did most nights in the darkness of her bedroom.

“Sansa, darling are you all right?” The voice of her brother makes her snapback from her reverie, and she gives him a tight smile not quite meeting his eyes for she fears he’ll be able to see what is hiding inside them, Robb has always been able to tell what she’s feeling even when she’s not sure herself.

“I am fine dear brother, just a bit tired” She squeezes his arm reassuringly before resting her head on his shoulder as his father takes the stand and starts with his lecture, Sansa had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed the church has already filled with people.

That morning the sermon was about the demon’s deceitful ways and the origin of sin, the red-haired girl feels her father is speaking directly to her as he starts describing the ways the devil will use to tempt the faithful people of the lord, she can barely keep her head up during the first part, too embarrassed and afraid to admit she has been the weak prey of sinful acts.   

Her fingers that rest on her lap start twisting a loose string of her shawl as her father’s words keep ringing in her head mixing with the memory of the dream that haunted her the night before. Soon and without her realizing it her eyelids start to drop and she’s once again in that loved music room where she spent most of her childhood, there’s a cold hand below her knees and a wicked tongue doing deceitful things to the place where she aches the most, she moans aloud in a way she’s sure only whores do before her hands finally go to the stranger’s head, his cloak falling back and revealing disheveled dark curls. She tangles her fingers between the soft locks as the stranger’s tongue reaches the place that always makes her come apart.

“Soon” he murmurs against her skin before her eyes shot wide open, one of her hands firmly gripping the wooden bench she’s sitting in.

Her brow is damp with perspiration and she’s sure her small clothes are a mess already but fortunately no one seems privy to what was happening between her closed eyelids, not even her dear brother in whose shoulder her head is resting. Everything seems normal around her, people are still engrossed in her father’s lecture and the birds are singing outside, everything is the same except the hunger inside her.

“Soon” The stranger had said in a deep raspy voice. He had never spoken before, nor had she been able to see his hair. Her fingers tingle at the memory of the softness of the curls in them.

“Soon” She murmurs to herself not really sure why the words slip out of her mouth so easily.

That night Sansa fears her dreams more than ever. She lies awake in the middle of her bed as a tempestuous storm hits outside her windows, the sound of the rain falling over the tall roof and the branches constantly hitting the windows of the house help her keep her eyelids open, and she is grateful for them because after hearing everything her father had to say in mass that morning, she is sure if she continues having those dreams she’ll be traveling straight to hell.

But she’s been sleeping so poorly lately and she is oh so tired that soon the sounds of the storm are not enough to keep her awake and slowly she starts falling into the unprotected land of dreams. For a couple of hours, there is nothing but darkness behind her closed eyes but soon she starts hearing the melody again and finds herself sitting on the old piano she loves so much.

“Soon you’ll be playing for me,” The deep voice says behind her and sends a shiver down her spine. She is aware this is nothing but a dream and yet a sense of fear and trepidation invade her, there’s also curiosity as she wonders why after so many nights having the same dream it has started to change.

“Because we are closer now my dear” The voice seems to answer the question she never made out loud. Soft cold fingers rest on top of her shoulders from behind and Sansa feels Goosebumps break across her skin.  “Because the time is almost up and soon you’ll be all mine” His hand moves forward, deft fingers toying with the necklace around her neck.

Her long and elegant fingers continue playing the melody he has started to hum, she is unable to stop even as his fingers plug into her neckline and start fondling her breasts “No” She murmurs halfheartedly as the familiar feeling starts spreading in her lower tummy “It isn’t right” She says as she feels his cold fingers resting on top of her collarbone, his soft curls tickling her cheek as he leans towards her from behind.

The keys of the piano continue moving even as she abandons them in order to hold onto the head that is now resting over her chest “Please” She moans without being sure what she is asking. His fingers have managed to lower the bodice of her dress and now she’s spilling out of it, rosy peaked nipples ripe for his taking.

His fingers play with them, pinching and pulling until she is panting for more “Please” She repeats and feels him smirking against the skin of her neck before he pulls away from her completely, leaving her cold and aching.

“Soon” He whispers before the dream vanishes and her eyelids open.

She wakes up with a gasp; one hand is tangled in the flesh between her legs while the other is pinching her exposed breast, a thick layer of sweat covering her body.  The rain has stopped and nothing but silence reigns in the four walls of her bedroom, a tear slides down her cheeks as she busies herself with the ache between her legs, cold lips, and soft curls on her mind the whole time.

                                                   *         *          *

The next day the circles underneath her eyes are considerably larger and she busies herself sulking in the corner of the library with a book between her hands. Her dear brother gives her a worried look before leaning closer and reassuring her that he will convince their mother to let her visit her dear friend Margery even though she isn’t very fond of her.

The red-haired girl nods absently and tips her lips in the mockery of a smile, guilt running through her veins as she watches her brother walk away confident in the belief that her strangled friendship with the slightly immoral Margaery Tyrell is what has been bothering her mind.

Catelyn Stark of course agrees with her favorite son, because how could Robb be wrong, so she allows her daughter to visit her friend with the condition that she is back before dinner time, whispers of missing girls have been circulating in the small village and even if they weren’t, Catelyn has never allowed her eldest daughter to be out and about after the sun goes down.

Sansa finds that once she is inside the Tyrell household the burdens seem to have lifted from her shoulders. Perhaps is because of the less strict costumes the family hold or the way Margaery and her brother always make her laugh until her belly hurts but among sweet lemon cakes and half-hidden sips of the sweet liquor the siblings have taken from their grandmother, time seems to flow by until the air that filters through the windows are chillier and Sansa realizes the sun is no longer up in the sky.

With a strangled gasp and promises to return next week, but knowing fully well her mother won’t allow it after staying for so long, the red-haired girl departs from the quaint house at the bottom of the hill.

The wind has picked up and the trees are howling as she rushed through the barely lit alleys, she shouldn’t have let the lemon cakes and warm conversation convince her of staying so late, Robb was going to be so mad once she finally arrived home, it wasn’t wise for young unwed women to be wandering around that late at night.  She moved quickly through the silent streets until she saw her imposing family home at the top of the hill, releasing a sigh of relief she hurried her steps and tightened the shawl around her, wanting nothing more than to be safe and sound in front of the warm fireplace.

But then, something happened.

She heard it, and the blood in her veins ran cold.

It was the song, the one that haunted her dreams.

She stopped dead in her tracks and allowed her head to slowly turn around, there, beneath one of the street lamps she saw him, a man dressed in black. Black cloak covering his hair and piercing dark eyes staring straight at her as he hummed her song, a wicked grin on his face as he took in her frightened expression.

The air got stuck in her throat as she saw him move towards her and without even thinking she sprinted towards the hill, not caring about the shoes she will surely ruin in the process.

Her heart was pounding as she rushed the steps of the entrance, her fist finding the door quickly and frantically knocking, not even caring for the scold that would surely wait for her inside, her skin felt ice cold and she wanted nothing more than to be inside the warmness of her home.

It was her father who opened the heavy door, a frown and hard eyes staring down at her but as he really took in her appearance something in his gaze softened “You are white as paper, child” He murmured in that low gravelly voice that drew so many people in at mass.

Sansa took a deep breath, every one of her limbs was shaking as her father closed the door behind her “I saw—It was” She began but had no idea what to say. How was it possible to explain the vision that had just haunted her?

“You are freezing” Ned Stark whispered after placing his hand against the porcelain skin of his daughter’s cheek “Go upstairs and change, get warm. Your mother is waiting for us at the library, and we will have a serious conversation”  

At any other moment the tone of his voice and the look in his face would have been enough to put the living fear in her but not now, not when whenever that was outside her home scared her more than a scolding from her parents not when the thing that came alive inside her at seeing him was threatening to consume her.

Sansa nodded demurely as she tried to force her beating heart to slow down “It won’t take long” She said before turning around and heading for the stairs, her feet still rested on the first one when a hard deaf knock was heard against the door.

The hair at the back of her neck stood up and before she could yell for her father to keep the door closed he had placed his hand on the knob and turned it around.

The grandfather clock in the parlor announced the arrival of another hour as Sansa watched her father take a step back, face ashen as he stared at the stranger in the doorway.

“I have come to collect what is mine,” The cloaked figure in the entrance said, a deep dark, and commanding voice that made something primal awaken inside of Sansa, who remained rooted at the feet of the stairs unable to move.

“No, you cannot” The voice that answered wasn’t the one of Ned Stark but of his wife who had come from the library and had a horrified look on her face, the pale green dress she wore seemed to melt with her complexion as walked further into the light.

The man at the entrance released a dark chuckle “I don’t think you are aware of how binding the deals I make are” He said in a low voice as he removed the cloak from his head, revealing a head full of dark curls, the sight making desire pool in the pit of Sansa’s belly with the memory of her fingers fisting the dark tresses “She is already mine whether you allow it or not”

“I will not let you take her!” Catelyn shouted as she went past her husband in direction of the stranger but Ned grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her backward until she was flush with his body.

The thin lips of the stranger curled in a cruel mock “You gave her to me that night nineteen years ago, you begged and prayed and only I answered your call, or have you forgotten that already?”

Color drained from the woman’s face “I didn’t know—I had no idea” The words stumbled out of her mouth “She is just a girl”

The man in black stepped inside the parlor, the air around them lowering a few degrees with his presence “I gave him back to you and you promised me her in return” He nearly spat at her as he leaned closer, a dark menacing look in his eyes.

“There must be another way,” Ned said gravelly as if he somehow had found his voice again but the man shook his head back in an answer.

Catelyn let out a pitiful wail as she slumped back into her husband “I didn’t know… I was foolish” She cried “Things are different now… we could… yes…another deal, let’s make another deal”

The cloaked man stiffened “You cannot fool death you foolish woman” He spat out before his dark eyes travelled towards the base of the stairs where the red-haired young woman was still standing “I want her, she is mine” There was no masking the need in his words, it made something dark and sinister curl inside her “And now it’s the time to collect”

 Catelyn’s horrified eyes went to her daughter as if realizing for the first time she was in the same room as them “Sansa! No! Get back into your room, I command you to”

The man in black lips curled in a wicked grin “No, my dear, come” He raised his hand towards her, and as if she was in some sort of spell her feet moved of her own accord.

“Child, what are you doing?” She heard her father shriek, saw out of the corner of her eyes how he tried to get too close to her but was unable to do it, bound to the floor by some kind of evil force.

“I’ve dreamt of you” She whispered as she stared into the stranger’s eyes, close enough to touch now “For months now”

He breathed her in, one lone finger trailing the curve of her pale neck “I know, you could sense the time was close” He murmured before placing a hand on top of her heart “You could feel me as much as I felt you”

“Sansa get away from that man!” Ned shrieked once again but Sansa was unable to do what he asked, the man in front of her was commanding her, pulling at something primal and hidden inside of her, she couldn’t get away from him even if she wanted to.

And she didn’t want to.

All the fear she had felt in the hill moments earlier had vanished and left nothing but a deep need behind. She needed this man; she needed him like she hadn’t needed anything before.

While Sansa hadn’t paid attention to the words uttered by her father, the stranger had and once arm had curled around her waist, pulling her to him as he sneered in the direction of the people behind her “You know I am more than a mere man” He gritted out “And you’ll do well not to cross me” His attention went back to the girl now in his arms “Come, my love, it’s time to go”

She shook her head, a confused expression crossing her face “But I… I don’t want to leave”

His expression darkened slightly “I am sorry my dear, but that is not up to discussion”

“No, no! Let her come with me” Catelyn Stark cried as she tried to throw herself at them but was pulled back by an invisible force “Don’t take her away, you monster!”

“Silence!” The man’s voice boomed in the nearly empty parlor “If you behave, I might even let her come to visit” He said disdainfully before turning his attention towards the redheaded girl in his arms  “Would you like that, my love?”

Sansa nodded silently, strangely at peace in the strange man’s embrace, unaffected by the cries of her parents behind her.

“Then it shall happen,” He said resolutely “For I am yours as much as you are mine, and whatever you wish you’ll get” A rough hand went to caress her skin with intensive care.

“Who are you?” Sansa asked as he moved them past the door and into the chilly dark night a tall dark horse waiting for them at the bottom of the hill.

His lips curled in a smile before he lowered his head to whisper in her ear “I’ve been called many names but you can always call me Jon Snow”

The smile comes out of hiding when she hugs him, when she shares every story she stored up to tell him over the past year, when he tells her of his adventures as a ranger. 

He stays a day or two, never more, only long enough to speak of recruits and supplies, hear news of their family, long enough for them to spend an evening sitting together by the fire while Sansa grooms Ghost, humming as she does. Jon drinks it in with thirsty ears, eyes full of something he will never put to words.

It's always after that night that he takes his leave with a gentle kiss left on her forehead. And after, she lies in bed and tells herself one tear is not too much to shed, knowing in the morning he'll be gone.

But this time, he stays one night, two, even a third and has not appeared at her door with Ghost by his side, and she wonders, tells herself she knows why, then wonders all the same. 

She isn't expecting it when he knocks the fourth night. Ghost walks in and sprawls by the fire, eyes her, expectant. Jon chuckles, settles down beside her as she adjusts her skirts and sets to work.

She says nothing; he doesn't speak either. 

He stares as always, but she cannot summon a song to her lips. 

They share the silence. 

Soon, too soon, Ghost shakes himself, signaling that grooming is over for the night, and Sansa reaches around his neck, buries herself in fur, in winter, in childhood. 

Jon stands, so does she, and she waits, waits, waits to receive her silent farewell. 

Breathing is a task difficult to manage as he looks at her, afraid she misinterprets what she sees, but what she thinks she sees makes an unwelcome tear come to her eye. 

Instead of giving her her kiss, he averts his eyes, as if he cannot bear to see her grief, as if it reproaches him, "Shouldn't I leave, Sansa?"

"No." She's so surprised he spoke, asked the question that always drives him from their home, that she responds with honesty rather than art. 

"Why not?"

She whirls around, walks away from him, sits at her desk, moves papers here and there, anything to avoid looking at him. 

"I should stay?" Low, so low it reverberates in her. 

"Yes."

"Why?"

She cannot say it. She mustn't. 

"Tell me."

They never say anything about it, never. It's been so many years since he became her cousin, and they have never, not once, broached the topic again. 

But, she looks at him. The rise and fall of his chest matches the beat of her heart. The fear in his eyes is a reflection of hers. His sigh feels as if it left her lips.

He stands a few feat away; he stands within her. 

"I can't stay much longer. I'll never be able to stay for long."

"I know."

"He'll always be my father."

"I know that too."

"Then why shouldn't I leave?"

"Because--" and Sansa, who had found her voice so strong when speaking for her people, when speaking in defense of Jon, found she was at a loss when it came to her own desires. 

He circles the corner of her desk, his knuckles brush the edges of it as he comes to stand at her side, "Why shouldn't I go?" 

Her wants are long buried, never forgotten but submerged beneath duty, beneath honor, beneath justice, and what right does she have to want? What right does she have to take?

But his dark eyes plead for her to say what he cannot, what he will not.

She shakes her head. She can be strong like him. She does not need to break their delicate armor.

He breaths out, a long, shuddering exhale, and she thinks, if she does not say it now, she never will. That he will not take, never. He merely gave her the chance if she wanted to. If she dared. 

He is a small circle of light in the darkness, and she longs to tell him that, longs to hold him to herself, but he smiles, soft and slow. He stoops to drop a kiss on her head, a promise that this moment, like all the others, will be left behind. 

Their secret comfort. 

Their fire in the snow. 

It's perfect, their armor, their moments that become memories, untarnished by words--such unwieldy things, so inadequate. 

As soon as she thinks it, she's reaching for his arm, pulls herself up to face him, because I am not your sister, she thinks. Because I want you, she thinks. Because I love you? Because you love me? It sounds trivial, love does not convey what they are to each other: betrayal, war, murder. 

She buries her face in his hair. His fingers tangle hers. No, love is too short a word to explain what it is: trust, safety, life. 

If they don't ever say it, they could continue. Irregular visits, moments of happiness, it would be enough, she thinks. But his forehead falls to her shoulder, his moment of weakness. This is not enough. 

Her fingers dig into his back, as she whispers, hoarsely, pulling the words forcefully from her throat, ashamed, fearful, joyous: "Because we both want you here. If only--even if it is only for tonight." 

Jon takes a kiss, gently, gives her his smile in exchange. 

An intervention for what, Sansa has no idea. She doesn't smoke, she doesn't do drugs, and despite the fact that she'd agreed to a girls wine and cheese night (lie), she would hardly call herself an excessive drinker.

“Look, we love you,” Bran leans forward and takes her hand from the chair pulled up next to the loveseat, “but this can't continue.”

“I... I honestly have no idea what you're talking about,” she says, looking around the circle. Her siblings, her friends, and... Hot Pie?

“You have got to stop stealing our clothes,” Arya huffs.

“I have never taken your clothes!” she gasps.

“Well no, not mine,” Arya concedes, “unless you count that one shirt you took to turn into a crop top in middle school, but we've already had that fight. I meant everyone else. They're all too scared to talk to you about it, so I decided to hold this intervention.”

Sansa looks around at the others, who all nod in agreement.

“It wouldn't be a problem if you gave them back, but you never do,” Robb says from the couch, squeezed between Jeyne and Jon, with Theon standing behind it and leaning against the back.

“What?” she asks, genuinely confused. “I do not!”

“Sans, sweetie,” Marg says and Sansa knows her well enough to hear the tone she's using. “You're literally wearing my sweater right now.”

“What?” she looks down at her sweater, “no, I got this....”

“From my closet,” Marg rolls her eyes.

“Ok, fine, maybe I borrow some things from you and Randa and maybe Jeyne, but why would I take clothes from Theon?” She thinks this is a fine point, as Theon's wardrobe is, in a word, disgusting.

“You took my Krakens hoodie,” Theon says through a mouthful of what appears to be a muffin that Sansa is sure hadn't been in his hands a minute ago.

“And I guarantee you have at least four Direwolves shirts somewhere,” Robb adds. “I know you took my championship one from a few years ago and Jon, you mentioned she has a couple of yours?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jon says but can't seem to look her in the eye.

She opens her mouth to argue, except... well, except she does have a pile of sweatshirts in her closet with inexplicable sports team logos on them that she would never in a million years buy herself. When she tries to think back to where she got them, she comes up blank.

“I think I'd remember stealing your clothes,” is what she says instead of admitting that she does, in fact, have the aforementioned sweatshirts.

“Maybe not,” Bran shrugs. “You stole my cardigan at that Christmas party and I don't think you even realized it was mine.”

“And I know my Direwolves sweatshirt went missing after Theon's birthday and you were pretty drunk,” Robb muses.

She thinks back to Theon's birthday and the killer dress she'd worn that... well, it had been cold at night and she hadn't been prepared for that because it had been a warm day and ok, maybe at one point she pulled on the closest thing she could find...

And sure, she tends to dress for aesthetics more than comfort and it's not her fault she gets cold easily, she has poor circulation! Maybe there was that one time during the Bachelorette finale where she'd gotten chilly and Robb had been shut up in his room so she couldn't borrow something from him or Jeyne, but Jon wasn't home and maybe she'd gone into his room and taken a sweatshirt just to wear for a little and maybe she had forgotten and went home with it.

“Why is Hot Pie here?” she asks instead of admitting that maybe, possibly, she is guilty of this.

“Well,” Arya says, “you took his bomber jacket after the Brotherhood concert and then I'm pretty sure you donated it, cause I found it in a Goodwill two months later.”

“I did not,” she gasps but it isn't in denial, it's in horror because she remembers that. She remembers finding the jacket and having no idea where it came from and just... tossing it in the bag of donations her mom was collecting.

As she looks around the circle, she knows they're right, and even though she wants to deny it, she can't and so instead she hugs her bottle of wine to her chest and wishes she'd bought a screw top instead so she could just open it now and drink it all in one go.

….

Later, she's in the kitchen (not hiding), having poured a glass of wine but reluctant to go back out. No one seems truly upset with her, but it's embarrassing. She even promised to pay Hot Pie the thirteen dollars he spent getting his jacket back.

She's just standing in Arya's kitchen, slowly swirling wine around in her glass, when Jon walks in and grabs a beer from the fridge.

“You ok?” he asks and nods at the wine in her hand that she's staring at and not drinking.

She frowns and says “you didn't seem to have too much to say.”

She's unclear why it comes out sounding accusatory, but throughout the whole thing Jon hadn't been able to look directly at her and she wonders if he's actually angry with her and she can't stand that and so she needs to know.

He shrugs and leans against the counter, picking at the label on his bottle of beer and says “honestly, it doesn't really bother me.”

“Me stealing your stuff?” she asks. “If Robb's right, I seem to steal more of your clothes than anyone else's.” She'd been informed by Robb and Theon and Arya of a pair of sweatpants she'd stolen while drunk at New Years, the Direwolves sweatshirts, and even a beanie she'd taken from his car.

He can't look at her and she watches a red flush creep up his neck and with his hair pulled back, she can see the tips of his ears are red, too, and after a few moments he shrugs again and mumbles something like “they look better on you anyway.”

She has nothing to say to that. What could she possibly say to that? She cannot be reading this right, she thinks, watching him grow more and more uncomfortable in her silence. He still won't look at her and he keeps eyeing the doorway like he's about to bolt right out but for some reason she can't let that happen. She won't let that happen.

“Well,” she says finally, “you should come over some time and go through the pile of clothes in my closet to see what's yours.”

He looks up at her and she can see the surprise on his face and he seems to study her for a moment, trying to work out what she means. “I guess I could do that,” he hesitates, like he's sure he's misunderstanding, but she's more sure than ever.

“You definitely should,” she finally smiles and she takes a sip of her wine before giving him a wink (who is she) and leaving him standing in the kitchen.