She wasn't really welcome there. The invitation was meant as a taunt, concealed by pretty, looping words and a soft tissue paper inset, but some unholy part of her had relished the idea of shocking the pair of them by actually showing up. She'd come alone, with no date, no armor. It wasn't the kind of thing they'd imagine Sansa Stark to do, not the Sansa they had known. That girl had allowed Joffrey to demean her for years, had been too naïve to see Margaery's overeager attentions for what they were, and would have slunk away like a kicked dog at the very idea of showing her face there, which was precisely why she'd gone.
The wedding had been lovely in a tasteless kind of way, with Margaery's touch blazoned on every red and gold facet. When the priest declared Joffrey her husband, her old friend's grin had been almost predatory with triumph and Sansa couldn't fathom what it was Margaery believed she'd won. As they shared a kiss on the dais, people clapping all around them, Sansa felt a well of pity for the girl and her petty intentions in coming there suddenly embarrassed her.
The reception was worse. Painfully tense small-talk with Cersei and Marg's grandmother, endured with a shit-eating grin. Afterwards, she retreated to the bar. It was nearly empty, the city's social climbers latching onto the chance to gossip and network amongst each other in the guest hall. She could hear the faint echo of the music and she swayed slightly in her chair, humming along quietly. Phil Phillips, Sea of Love. She was still nursing her war wounds and a blessedly strong Long Island when a man took the empty seat next to her and ordered a scotch and soda.
She sipped at her drink, her lips puckering, and felt his eyes on her in profile. She heard him draw breath several times, as if on the verge of speech, but he never quite got the words out. She rolled her eyes, wished she'd brought a date. Harry had hinted for an invite but she'd demurred. If she'd had a little more forethought, she might be in one of the rooms upstairs having ill-conceived depression sex instead of hiding and anticipating the awkward advances of some asshole. Her drink didn't seem half so strong suddenly.
"Think they're cutting the cake soon," the man said, his foot tapping against the brass leg of his stool. She bit back a sigh, a polite smile curling her lips without her permission. Why did she always have to be nice?
"Yeah," she chirped.
For a long moment, it was uncomfortably silent and she thought that might be all he would say. She took a long drink and hoped for his sake that he didn't often try picking up girls in bars. He was exceptionally bad at it. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier.
"Are you a friend of Margaery's?"
No. "Yes. Something like that." She took another drink and the ice clinked at the bottom of her glass.
"Can I buy you another?" he asked.
She turned to him and smirked, needling him a bit. "It's an open bar."
"Oh. Right." He flushed, his hand cuffing awkwardly at the back of his neck, looking like he might flee at any moment. She took pity on him.
"Are you a friend?" she led. "Of Marg's?" He was no friend of Joff's. She didn't know the guy, but she knew that much. He was too… something. And anyway, Joffrey didn't have any friends.
He chuckled, the sound a pleasant, throaty hum and she felt her stomach lurch. She set her glass down, deciding to forgo a second drink.
"Something like that," he said. "An ex actually."
"Oh?" She wasn't sure what else to say. He hummed, sipped from his own drink, and she watched the slow roll of his throat as he swallowed. He was handsome, with dark curls and sad eyes, looking uncomfortable in a fitted grey suit. His skin was tawny and fresh bristle covered his cheeks. Not Marg's type. She wondered what the story was there. He was either a false friend like her, showing up just to be contrary, or he was a genuine one. She heard herself blurt out, "Strange you would come then."
It was too familiar a thing to say and enormously rude – ironic too, from her – but he only laughed. "I guess it is, a little." She smiled in apology and he returned it. He had nice teeth. Straight and white. "We're not really close anymore. Marg and me. I just wanted to see that she's alright I guess." He shrugged, looking flustered as he took another sip of his drink, and she stared at him. She didn't think it was a line.
The music from the hall echoed, bass thumping, but she couldn't place the song. "Not one for dancing?" she asked. His mouth twisted curiously, up and down at once. He had nice lips too.
"Not really, no. My Chicken Dance is kinda pitiful."
She laughed. "That's too bad." He stared at her for a long moment, hands rubbing nervously at his thighs, and his awkwardness was somehow endearing.
"Are you… are you by yourself here?" he asked.
A lie rushed to her tongue, always at the ready, but she swallowed it.
"Yup. Just me," she said.
He smiled at her so genuinely then that she thought she might like to see one of those rooms upstairs after all.
"I'm Jon," he said.
"Sansa."