Chapter Two
Sansa laid her head on the cold concrete tiles of the penthouse' shared bathroom. Waiting for the nausea to subside, the Targaryen princess pressed her cheeks and forehead to the bathroom floor. Used and crumpled pieces of toilet paper surrounded her; her auburn hair spread around her head like a halo.
She's sure she looks like a total waste.
The party went on until sleep finally took Sansa. But even in the early hours of morning, when the party was over and done (Daenerys was responsible like that), it wasn't the party sounds that disturbed her already fitful sleep.
It was the sounds emanating from her half-sister's bedroom that did it, loud and self-gratifying, and since then she was unable to sleep.
Sansa contemplated her situation. This was madness. She was just about to begin her short respite from the hectic theater rehearsals and was waiting for her flight when her half-sister called her phone and pleaded with her to go to her party. She should not have eagerly taken Daenerys' hospitality and acquiesced to her pleading. It was bad enough that after all these years she realized that was still like a child, eager to feel like she belonged, dropping anything even her dignity just to gain some semblance of acceptance from her paternal family. Bad enough that she stayed up for most of the night, putting up with that.
So now Sansa was stuck with a sickness much worse than hangover, even though she vowed never to touch alcohol again. It was getting worse, she noticed, but she paid no mind. It might be the stress of the rehearsals and lack of proper sleep for months now. She was hesitant to go to a doctor; it didn't feel like dying yet.
On the other hand, it might be...
She whisked the thought away as fast as it came. No. It's not possible.
But the thought affected her more than she expected, so bile rose in her throat again, and she bent over the toilet to relieve herself.
After a few moments of heaving and heavy breathing, Sansa felt the world and her stomach turn right again. Pulling a wad out of the toilet paper roll she unceremoniously dumped by her side, she wiped her face clean from sweat and snot. She stood up and cleaned up the mess she made.
"You're not supposed to be here."
Warmth rushed to her cheeks as soon as she heard the too familiar low and quite voice. She looked up and looked right back at Jon Snow's glare indignantly. There was thrill, there was want, but right now, she wanted blood.
"This is my home-"
"No, it's Dany's. You're trying to make a point. You're failing," he interrupted her coldly. Cold, like the North. They were both of the North, she wanted to whine. We are both of the North. Don't you remember?
Not anymore, Life whispered.
To her horror tears sprang to her eyes. She felt she looked like a headstrong toddler with tears in her eyes but a stubborn angry frown on her face. Toddler. Ha, pathetic.
She blinked quickly and tried to calm herself. But it only made things worse. "N-news flash, Snow. It's not yours too. Will never be yours, I daresay," she managed to breathe out and growl as menacingly as her family's sigil could. She moved around him, trying to get back up the stairs to her room again (and do something like pack quickly) when she felt a firm hand grab her upper arm.
Thrill. There it was again. But Sansa drew her arm back as violently as her anger could. Jon ignored it. "Are you sick?" he inquired. A tinge of concern lit up in his eyes amidst the ocean of indifference in there. Sansa wanted to laugh bitterly.
And huff bitterly she did. Rolled her eyes for good measure too. She was going for toddler today. There's bile rising in her throat again and she won't dare open her mouth. She's humiliated herself too much for twenty two years, a number of time too for Jon Snow. She wasn't keen on adding another hour or minute to that number.
She moved to walk away again when he grabbed her again. She tried to jerk back when he spoke again. "You didn't drink, didn't you? Dany told me you don't drink anymore." He trained his gray eyes on her, dark and scrutinizing her face. "Either you lied or she did."
Sansa sneered. She must look like a hag right now, messy hair and bitter mien. She tried pulling her arm back but he held it tighter. "Did you take the pill?" he half-whispered, half-growled.
She stopped. Time stopped. Everything stopped. She glanced up at Jon's face and saw he looked as pale as she probably was.
Gods.
Fucking.
Damn it.
She pulled her hand back, wrapped her hands tightly around her mouth and ran back up the stairs. She didn't hear him run after her, nor did he make any sound except a desperate whisper of "Sansa!" at her back. Upon reaching her room she pulled open one of the windows and threw her guts up. It was a penthouse, a penthouse with a garden, a penthouse with a garden and housekeepers and just had a party the night before. It would be easy to explain.
Pathetic Sansa Targaryen.
