Sansa has never been particularly prone to deja vu. But now, sitting in Petyr Baelish's office, his silver streaked dark hair all but glowing in lighting a little too low to be professional, his words trigger a memory so strong she's almost lost in it.

"I can still feel what he did, inside of me."

Petyr blinks at her, mouth opening to form a response.

"And I don't mean in my tender heart, it pains me so," she hisses, watching the forced sympathy drain from his eyes. "I can still feel it."

Understanding clicks, followed by revulsion.

"Yet you aren't pressing charges," he says softly, testing her. Sansa has learned to recognize that by now. She's entirely repulsed by him. And yet, in many ways, he's the reason she's still here.

"We both know his father would make sure they didn't stick. Roose Bolton would paint me as the spurred society girl, lashing out after being rejected. He has the friends to make that story reality, as far as the public is concerned."

Petyr smiles at her, almost proudly.

"True. So what is it that you wish for me to do?"

"He-I don't want to hear from him ever again. He's not to contact me, and my family…" The threat Ramsey made as he slid a blade along her inner thigh, followed by something softer, but just as sharp in it's ugliness, flashes into her mind. The way her sister's name on his lips instilled a fear in her that she'd thought was no longer possible after Ramsey first forced himself on her. "They'll never know, and he will never so much as lay eyes on them. Can you do that?"

She's asking him to barter a treaty with the man who violated every inch of her body, who carved his mark into her skin and soaked his sheets with her own blood. His eyebrows go up.

"Your silence for his. I imagine that will cost you far more than him." It isn't an even trade, is what he's saying. Ever the businessman.

"Can you do it?" She repeats, ignoring his sentiment. The damage is done. She will never again be who she was. All there is left to do now is make sure the shame and blood and wreck of it all is contained.

"I believe so. If that is truly what you want."

"Sansa?" She startles. "Are you sure you wish to go through with this?"

She blinks at Baelish, resenting the opportunity to give in to her weakness. The temptation is there, but she pushes it aside.

"I'm sure that it is the only option," she says firmly. That her wishes have nothing to do with it is left unsaid. "Send me the bill. And I trust you'll keep my involvement in this to yourself."

He holds up a hand in promise.

"Of course. You have my utmost discretion." For whatever that's worth, she thinks.

"Thank you. I should go." She stands, mind whirling with all the horrific revelations of their meeting. Another girl, a redhead, murdered. The last one to see her was Ramsey, and she was missing for nearly two weeks before her body was found. Violated and mutilated.

"You…took my advice, I hope." Petyr's voice trails after her as she makes for the door. "About protecting yourself."

"I have," she says, thinking of the gun in her nightstand and the one in her car, and the muscles she's torn and twisted into iron under her skin. But his words are a warning as much as anything else, and by the time she makes it to her car she's already dialled Brienne's number.

"Haven't heard from you in a while," the familiar voice fills her car, and with it comes a sense of security that is rare in her life. "Everything alright?"

"Not really," Sansa says. She doesn't elaborate. She's a little afraid she'll break if she does. "I was hoping you could meet me tomorrow, after work."

"Yeah," Brienne agrees easily. The woman was one of the first people Sansa let herself trust after Joffrey, and one of the only reasons she managed to hold onto her sanity after Ramsey. "Sure. Should I come to you, or-"

"Your place," Sansa says. "I have a houseguest." The pause in conversation is filled with Brienne's surprise, but it barely registers in the wake of everything that's happened.

"Alright. Around six thirty?"

"Okay," Sansa says, and suddenly it's a little easier to breathe. "Thank you."

The world is spinning around the edges, the way it used to, and Sansa did not ever think she would have to do this again.

The thought of getting her ass kicked by Brienne cheers up a little.

Gods, some days she can't remember who she's supposed to be at all.


"You've let yourself get out of practice."

"I know," Sansa says, and she does. It scares the nerves on every inch of her body back to life. She's buzzing with it, the adrenaline, and the endorphins, and the pain.

"But you're here now," Brienne adds, like she can see the weight of her words on Sansa's chest. She doesn't ask why, but Sansa hears it anyways.

"He's back." It feels good and horrifying to be able to say that out loud, and bile rises in her throat. "He killed someone. He called me."

Brienne knows everything. It came out, like an exorcism, a few weeks after she started training Sansa. She'd said something about not having the time to train another high society girl who doesn't have the drive to learn, really learn, and that had been-

Well. A loss of control Sansa could not really afford. But for once, the mistake didn't come back to wrap around her throat at night, and now there's someone who knows. Someone Sansa considers a friend.

"What are you going to do?"

The blonde towers over her, piercing blue eyes sharp with concern, and hatred. Brienne has no tolerance for bullies, or men in general. She especially despises men who are cruel to women.

"I'm going to find out who else he's done this to. I'm going to pile up the evidence against him, and when there is too much for Roose Bolton to sweep under the rug, I'm going to expose him."

Brienne stills. It's an unnerving trait, how still she can be, like the statue of some towering Amazonian warrior. It's also her tell. She doesn't like the plan.

"That sounds dangerous. Surely the Boltons never stopped watching you. They'll know if you suddenly start poking around in Ramsey's past."

All true words. But-

"I can't do nothing, Brienne. This is better than that."

The look on her friend's face suggests she doesn't agree.

"You could go forward, just you, before they have time to-"

"That would be no less dangerous," Sansa says tiredly, scrubbing an aching hand across her face. There are cuts and bruises she hopes no one will notice already beginning to form along her knuckles. "And much less effective. Roose would discredit me and twist the story to make Ramsey the victim, and me some sort of jilted lover." She stands. "I should get going. Jon will wonder where I am."

Two blonde eyebrows go up.

"Right. Your 'houseguest'." The way she says it sounds like something else.

"He's my brother," Sansa mutters, though it sounds and feels like a lie. "Or near enough."

"Hmph." Her trainer sniffs disbelievingly. "Well, it's probably for the best that you're not on your own right now. You know," her gaze softens, "Podrik keeps bothering me to go to that bar with that blonde bartender. If you came, you could bring your friend."

The offer is so uncharacteristic that it takes a moment for Sansa to wrap her mind around it.

"You-" Comprehension dawns. "You just want to meet to Jon so you can tell me you don't trust him."

Brienne shifts uncomfortably.

"You've been…eager to see the best of people in the past. And even now, with that Baelish man-I just want to make sure he's not…the same."

Jon, like Joffrey? Like Ramsey? They may have their differences, but he's good in a way even Sansa doesn't really understand.

"Jon isn't Joffrey." She says, shaking her head. "Jon isn't Ramsey, or Roose or Petyr for that matter. Jon is Jon. He's…my brother." It doesn't feel like a lie so much this time, in that she means it as a matter of the unbreakable bond that chains all the Starks together. "He'll keep me safe, as much as anyone can. I trust him."

Her words almost seem to be enough. With a grudging sigh, she relents.

"I'll ask him if he'd like to go. But he's about as social as you are, so don't get your hopes up."

Looking completely unbothered by the dig, Brienne shrugs.

"Alright. If you decide to come, let Podrik know. I can never remember the name of the place."

Sansa hums a confirmation, and slings her bag over her shoulder. It's heavy now, with the weight of her gloves and the batons Brienne got her to practice with. It had seemed like overkill at the time, but the trainer had insisted.

"You don't get to choose what's around in a real fight. You use what you have. At least with these you'll learn how to properly hit someone over the head with it."

All this had started out of fear, eventually turning to a promise, after Ramsey. As though hardening her body would also protect her brittle heart. She'd almost stopped believing she really needed it, until now.


She tries to minimize her wincing as she walks through the front door, cursing herself for pushing so hard. And also for not pushing hard enough the past few months. Maybe Jon will be in his room and won't see her come in.

"Hi, I-" Jon's voice cuts out as he takes in her appearance. Of course, he was waiting in the living room for her. His eyes scan her workout gear, the sweat plastering auburn curls to her forehead. "Oh. Good workout?"

She'd said she was going to the gym. It was more or less true.

"Uh, yeah." She's careful not to set her bag down, just in case. "I didn't realize how out of shape I'd gotten."

Skepticism settles on his face at that, and as vain as it is, Sansa appreciates that.

"I, uh, made beef stew. If you're hungry. It's not exactly gourmet, but-"

"That sounds perfect," She cuts him off with a longing sigh. After the punishment she's just put her body through, the meaty, savoury scent drifting in from the kitchen smells lovely. "Have you eaten already?"

He shakes his head, loose curls framing his face.

She almost says I hope you weren't waiting for me, but of course he was. And mentioning it will only make him uncomfortable.

"I really need a shower. You should start without me." Part of her wants to ladle stew directly into her mouth, she's starving, but it would hardly be ladylike. Jon shifts his weight, frowning.

"I wanted to…talk. I can wait for you." The words seem ominous to her, falling like stones into her stomach and Sansa can't decide if that's simply her past projecting itself into his mouth.

She blinks, swallowing the knot forming in her throat.

"Alright. I'll be quick then."

She is, though the the hot water feels blissful against muscles that are going to punish her in the morning. By the time she comes out, Jon has already set two bowls on the table, and steam rises off them, the salty smell making her mouth water. Jon looks up, and she feels suddenly vulnerable like this, bare faced, hair still wet from the shower.

But then he looks back at the table, and she remembers that this is Jon, and that she shouldn't care what she looks like. It's not like he cares, after all.

"This smells amazing," She slides into her usual seat, realizing as she does so that this is the first time they've actually eaten a meal together since they both lived at home. Jon sits when she does, still looking vaguely uncomfortable in a way that has her palms beginning to sweat. "You didn't have to do this."

He shrugs, waiting until Sansa takes a spoonful to do the same.

"It's the least I can do. It's not fancy, but…"

"It's delicious," she assures him honestly, savouring the rich flavour as it rolls over her tongue. The small crease in his forehead relaxes as he watches her take another big bite. "What did you want to talk about?"

There's a split second where he hesitates, expression freezing in place. It does nothing to assuage the nerves curling in her belly. Then he looks back at his bowl, eyebrows drawing together. The frown worries her less, it's so familiar.

"I didn't think…It might be a little longer than I thought before I can go home." His words tumble out messily, like he's still not quite sure they're the ones he wants. Sansa blinks.

"Oh." She's not entirely sure what that means, given that she was never really sure how long he was supposed to be staying in the first place. She can't imagine he wants to be away from work any longer than he has to, so she was never concerned about him overstaying his welcome. "Well, that's alright."

Jon's eyes sweep over her face, and it feels like a physical thing then, his gaze. It's as though she can feel it on her skin, reading her like braille, looking for a lie.

"You don't want to know for how long?" He asks eventually, apparently unable to find anything other than honesty in her reaction. She shrugs.

"I assume you're going to tell me. But I'm not particularly concerned about it, no." She says, spearing a carrot on the end of her fork. The stew is good, and she wants more than anything else to curl up on the couch with a book, but this seems important to Jon, and she'll do what she can to ease his worry that he's imposing.

"Two months." Something about that seems significant, though Sansa can't put her finger on it. When she just waits, he adds, "He doesn't think I'll be in shape to go back until after Christmas."

Ah. While that is a little longer than she'd initially anticipated, the recent situation with Ramsey makes Jon's presence even more welcome than when she'd first invited him. And as much as she sometimes finds herself laced up and brittle in the company of others, the past few days have been easier than she'd expected. Jon represents family, something Sansa has missed since quarantining herself from the rest of the Starks, but he's just distant enough not to pose a threat of exposure.

He didn't know her well enough before to understand how much she's changed. Her treatment of him when they were children surely makes her cool demeanour familiar to him.

She's avoided the past two Christmases at the Stark household, much to the disappointment of her parents. It feels too much like being under a microscope back home. The feeling of being watched seems to follow her around the manor, as though all the rest of them are trying to puzzle out what exactly it is that has changed so much about her.

And though she promised to go home this year, she'll certainly have to if Jon is still staying with her.

"The doctor had said it might be that long," she reminds him, when the expectant silence begins to stretch on. "I know you were hoping you'd be back at work earlier than that, though. I'm sure you're disappointed."

"I-" he opens his mouth, frown deepening. "Yeah. But that's a long time to have a houseguest, and I don't expect you to-"

"Jon." Sansa sets her spoon down a little more forcefully than intended, and they both seem to startle a little at the noise. "If I minded having you here, you'd know. And I wouldn't have invited you in the first place." He makes an unsure noise in the back of his throat, and she sighs. "Besides, when have you know me to do anything I didn't want to?"

Aside from last night, she thinks. But he doesn't know that. His brow unfurrows, just a little.

"Alright," he mumbles hesitantly. "I just-I appreciate it, is all. I've been told I'm not great at showing that."

"Or any emotion at all, aside from brooding, I expect," Sansa murmurs, lips twitching. "You're fine, Jon. I know you appreciate it, and I really don't mind. It's kind of nice, actually." It surprises her when she finds she means that.

Something resembling a smile tugs at his lips as well.

"Can't imagine who you've been hanging out lately if Ghost and I pass for decent company," he jokes. Sansa's gut seizes, but she doesn't let her easy expression falter.

"Speaking of company," she suddenly remembers Brienne's invitation. "A friend of mine invited us out for drinks tonight, if you're up for it."

Surprise flits across his face, followed by confusion.

"Us?"

She nods.

"Brienne wants to meet you. She can be…protective. I'm sure she's half hoping you're some sort of rogue she can forcibly evict from my flat." His eyebrows go up. "But it will just be her and Podrik, and they're both fairly…reserved. It wouldn't be much more than a few drinks I'm sure. Only if you want, though. I can tell her I have to finish a proposal if you don't want to go."

"Do you have a proposal to write?" He asks, and Sansa gets the sense he's stalling for time. She waves a hand dismissively.

"There's always a proposal or an expense report that needs to be done. But this one isn't urgent."

To give him time to think about it, she gets to her feet, walking over to the stove and serving herself another small bowl of stew.

"Would it be alright if I invited someone?"

The quick jolt of displeasure in Sansa's stomach surprises her.

"Of course." She forces indifference as she sits back down. "Did you meet someone at your appointment? You certainly work fast."

The words sound like an accusation, to her mortification. Why should she care who Jon invites to drinks?

And why does she care so much?

But he just shakes his head, oblivious. Thank the gods for small miracles.

"An old friend. We went to school together, but he ended up moving out here to become a teacher instead. I've been meaning to see him, since I'm here." His voice is fond, with a warmth that tugs at something low in her belly. It's not that she didn't know he had friends other than Robb, but it's strange to think about sad, brooding Jon in a social setting.

"You should invite him," Sansa says again, this time more sincerely. "I can't promise Brienne won't interrogate the pair of you, but Podrik is friendly enough for all three of us."

"Alright," Jon says around a mouthful of stew. "I'll text him. Where are we meeting your friends?"

"I'll have to ask Podrik," she realizes. "I'll let you know."

The silence falls again, but this time it's comfortable, and it hits her then how quickly she's gotten used to his presence.

Two months. And then it will just be Sansa, the quiet, and her demons again.