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Summary: It wasn't that Sansa hated Jon Snow. Not at all. It was just that he was a bastard and he didn't belong here. At least, that was what she told herself when she saw Arya with him instead of her. A very short story diving into the mind of the beauty of House Stark
Bitter:
Jon Snow; dark haired, pale and even a little handsome had never really done anything to wrong anyone in Winterfell, but he was the scourge of the North to Sansa Stark. It wasn't that Sansa hated Jon Snow. Not at all. It was just that he was a bastard. He was her brother, and he was Ned Stark's son, but he was a bastard. He had never directly done anything against her….that he was aware of. Jon Snow was not a terrible person. It wasn't who he was as a person that angered her and her mother. It was who fate had decided he was.
Jon Snow; as his name gave away, was Ned's bastard. Given birth to by some whore or some woman that Sansa's father had just happened to come upon and had become besotted with. It wasn't as if it was anything truly personal, it was just that Catelyn Stark; Sansa's mother saw the product of Ned and Jon's mother for what it was. It was nothing but a dishonor to the family.
However, Sansa knew that she could hide behind that reason her whole life, but that wasn't the true motive for her passive anger and negligence towards her half brother. Jon was a dishonor-a stain on the family; that much was true. But Sansa would never admit the real reason she sometimes wished he would just disappear. Never.
She heard Jon laugh as he picked up Arya. Arya's dark hair blew in the icy wind, the girl grinning triumphantly as she showed Jon how she could fire her arrows.
Sansa knew Arya liked swords, but when had she learned to fire arrows? She felt bitter as she suspected that Jon would have known their sister loved bows and arrows too. She watched over the wooden rafters as Arya smiled in adoration up at their half-brother. Sansa's hands clenched on the wood. That was why she wished Jon would vanish into the cold winter air. She was the older sister. Arya should have been looking up to her, not to their bastard brother.
Whenever Sansa's thoughts strayed to this issue-this conflict, her stomach would twist in knots. She didn't want to say that she was envious of Jon. She didn't want to admit that she was that petty. She would not say that she was jealous. She would not.
The moment Arya had been born, Sansa had been the one that the dark haired girl was supposed to look up to and adore. Sansa was the one Arya was supposed to climb into the arms of and giggle in pure joy at being held by her older sibling. But Jon had interfered. Acting as if he belonged in Winterfell, sitting down in front of the crying baby that was Arya and lifting the girl up, winning the baby's affections immediately.
Now, seeing Arya, at the age of seven, hugging her arms around Jon's neck, grinning up at him playfully. Jon had Arya wrapped around his little finger. Sansa looked away, resentful.
She should have been cause of the light shining in Arya's eyes right now, not Jon. She should have been the sibling that Arya would go to at night after she'd have a nightmare, not Jon.
She should have been the one holding Arya right now, not Jon.
But she would never say that she was jealous. If anyone ever asked why she was calling Jon a bastard in a particularly cruel manner at dinner that night, she would claim that it was simply because he was a dishonor to the family.
No one would know such terrible thoughts streamed through the head of a girl of only nine.
She would never admit that Arya was the reason why.