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Chapter Text

“Lose your virginity? Goddammit, Bronn. These kids are like fourteen. You are such a perv.”

Brienne snatched the notebook out of his hands.

The Lannisters’ house in King’s Landing looked like someone cared once. Shiny in some corners, dusty in others.

Tywin was gone, obviously. Off somewhere important. Jaime lived here alone most of the year. Too much house for one kid. Unopened mail piled on the entry table. Navy blazers draped over chairs or tossed on the floor. It was late afternoon, that hour when uniforms quit looking like uniforms: ties loose, shirts untucked, sleeves shoved up.

They sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the rug—Sandor, Brienne, Bronn—while Jaime sprawled across the sofa.

“It’s the first draft, Bri,” he said. “We’re just brainstorming.”

“But they’ll need proof,” she said, crossing off half the page. “Nobody’s doing any of this stuff on camera.”

“I had sex for the first time at our initiation party,” Bronn said. “It was filmed.”

“That’s because Lollys Stokeworth rode you on Selmy’s couch while you were barred out,” Sandor said. “That was fucked up.”

“Exactly. Lollys understood the assignment.”

St. Baelor’s freshman initiation was the annual shit show everyone pretended meant something. He remembered his own in pieces—the kid who fell into the creek, Jaime puking into the pool. He’d blacked out for the rest and came to on Barristan’s lawn with one headache and no revelations. Nothing profound about it. Still, Bronn liked to perform, Brienne liked to argue. All of it headed toward the same mess, same as every year.

“Anyway, the list isn’t mandatory,” Bronn continued. “More like suggestions.”

Sandor read over Brienne’s shoulder.

“Take off the whip-its,” he said. “Can’t buy them in King’s Landing anymore.”

“You can if you know where to look,” Tormund mumbled from the armchair. He was rolling a blunt on Tywin’s copy of The Power Broker.

“We are not sending these kids to sex shops to buy whip-its,” Brienne said, striking out another line.

“That’s fine,” Bronn said, leaning back on his hands. “Jaime and I bought twenty boxes yesterday. Everything else Tormund ordered came in last week.”

Sandor lifted a brow. “What’d you get?”

“Molly, shrooms, acid, blow, 2C-B, ketamine. No pills this year.” 

“You got any ideas, Clegane?” Bronn asked. “You’re a man of culture.”

“Already told you I’m not doing this shit.”

“Oh. Did you?”

Sandor gave him a look: You didn’t.

Bronn grinned: Oh, I did.

Sandor dragged a hand down his face.

“Fucking hell.”

Jaime sat up and flicked through his phone.

“Looks like you’re with Sansa Stark,” he said, turning the screen toward him. “Congrats.”

Sandor took the phone. There on the spreadsheet: Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark, side by side. He pressed his tongue to his teeth.

“Stark?” Brienne groaned. “You gave Sandor the new headmaster’s daughter?”

Bronn held his hands up. “I didn’t give anyone anything. It’s randomly assigned. Pure chance.”

Sandor snorted. “And you randomly got Margaery Tyrell?” He tossed the phone back. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

Brienne pinched the bridge of her nose.

“This whole system is messed up. We should be doing same-gender pairings. It’s so creepy that you two get assigned to ‘initiate’ fourteen-year-old girls.”

“It’s not creepy,” Tormund said. “It’s educational.”

“Some of these girls are fifteen, by the way,” Bronn said.

“Plus no one has to do anything they don’t want to,” Jaime said. “It’s all optional.”

“If that’s the case, I’m not going,” Sandor said.

“You’re going,” Bronn snapped, pointing a vape at him. “Look, you don’t have to do anything to the girl. Just show up. Look mean. Let her choose what she wants to do off the list.”

Sandor exhaled and scanned the page again.

“Not that one,” he muttered.

Brienne put a hard line through Fuck in the headmaster’s office.

: :

There were still moving boxes everywhere, but Catelyn had made a full spread like it was Harvest Feast: rabbit stew, glazed carrots, fresh rolls, and a whole roast chicken.

It was the end of Sansa’s first week at St. Baelor’s, where admission depended on test scores and a formal interview, which meant even the dumb kids were smart. And rich. Unless they weren’t, which meant they were really smart.

Sansa’s brothers were juniors. Robb, Jon, and Theon had boarded in the dorms when the Starks still lived in Winterfell. But Ned was the headmaster now, so the family had moved into the quiet house on campus, a place just big enough for all nine of them.

“It happens every year,” Robb said. “They pair up freshmen with seniors for, like, orientation or whatever.”

“It’s not orientation,” Jon said. “It’s just a reason to get drunk and humiliate people.”

Catelyn frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“It’s not so bad, Cat,” Ned said. “Sounds the same as when I went to Baelor’s. Don’t think any of these kids could top the year Robert and I planned the party.”

Sansa kept drifting into silly little daydreams about tomorrow. Freshman initiation had a reputation—the kind of night that made Robb grin, Jon go quiet, and Theon brag like he’d invented debauchery. She rolled her eyes but secretly, she wanted a story of her own, something she could recount later with a shrug, pretending it hadn’t mattered even though it obviously would.

“Sansa’s too young to get drunk,” Catelyn said. “You boys better look out for your sister tomorrow night.”

“We will, we will,” Theon said with a wave of his hand. “So Sansa, who’d you get? Bronn should have sent the list to your school email by now.”

Sansa pulled out her phone and checked.

“I got Sandor Clegane.”

“You got Sandor?” Jon said, laughing. “Bronn is such a dick.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “What’s he like?”

“He’s an asshole,” Robb said around a mouthful.

“He’s not an asshole,” Jon said. “I know him from track. He’s cool.”

“And I know him from debate. He’s an asshole.”

“No, he’s really cool, Sans,” Theon said. “He’s full-ride smart. Doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s like… really intense. I had a panic attack at a party once and he told me, ‘You are not your thoughts—you are the awareness behind your thoughts.’ Forgot who he was quoting, but it like… changed my life.”

“People say he slept with a teacher,” Robb said.

“That actually happened,” Theon said. “She got fired.”

“Guys, come on,” Ned cut in. “None of that.”

“He also anonymously submitted this short story to the lit mag and it won some regional award,” Jon said.

“If he submitted it anonymously, how do you know it was him?” Bran asked.

“I read it,” Jon said. “I know it was him.”

“It was definitely him,” Theon said. “Dude’s a genius. Like he only reads nonfiction and war memoirs.”

“He sounds pretentious,” Arya muttered, poking at her food.

“That’s the thing,” Theon said. “Sounds like he would be pretentious, right? But he just isn’t. He’d have to give a shit to be pretentious. Sandor Clegane does not give a shit.”

“You sound like you’re in love with him,” Bran said.

“So,” Sansa said, trying to sound casual. “Is he cute?”

Her brothers just chuckled.

“You’ll see,” Robb said.

: :

The thing about looking effortless was that it required hours of quiet work no one ever talked about.

Margaery Tyrell came over to get ready. She knew things like how to make snagged tights look intentional or how to give the impression nothing surprised her.

Sansa wanted that. She wanted to seem like she never tried, which was probably a little tragic because she was working at it like a full-time job. She’d stayed up too late scrolling through moodboards, searching for the girl she wanted to be. Girl on balcony. Girl leaning against a bathroom sink. Girl looking bored in a beautiful way.

No one was actually Interesting Without Trying, she told herself. She needed to believe everyone curated themselves in small, secret ways.

“Do you know anything about your senior?” Sansa asked, braiding her hair to one side.

Margaery was painting her nails with a glitter polish.

“His name is Bronn. He planned everything with Jaime Lannister. Loras says it’s going to be insane this year. The party’s at this guy Tormund’s house—well, farm. It’s like an hour from the city. Middle of nowhere.”

Sansa nodded. “And Sandor Clegane?”

Her sweater fell off one shoulder, just enough to show the purple lace of her bralette. Paired with a mini skirt and varsity socks, the whole look was straight out of an American Apparel ad.

“That’s who you’re with?” Margaery smirked, blowing on her nails. “Haven’t heard much about him except he used to get into a lot of fights. Loras only knows him because Sandor lets him cheat off him in Valyrian. Says he’s nicer than he looks.”

Than he looks?

She was curious—more than curious—but she wasn’t about to push for details on a guy she hadn’t even met. She wasn’t going to be the girl who made a thing out of anything.

Margaery looked up.

“You look good. Sexy cute. Wanna do a shot before we head out there?”

“Sure,” Sansa said with a shrug.

: :

“I think that’s them,” Margaery said. “Sandor is the tall one.”

The tall one stood off to the side, half-turned away. Though tall didn’t really cover it. He was built like a grown man—lean and strong, already settled into himself.

His FUCT ringer tee was a little small, but probably everything was small on him. Charcoal pants, shoes busted to hell. He had the vibe of someone who got dressed in the dark and still ended up looking cool—ridiculously cool. The kind of cool you can’t manufacture no matter how many moodboards you study.

The guy he was talking to had on aviators and a captain’s hat like he was Johnny Knoxville. He nodded toward Margaery and Sansa, then Sandor turned with an eyebrow raised.

Okay, now Sansa got it.

Burns covered half his face from his forehead down to his jaw. His dark hair was long enough to fall over the damaged side, but not long enough to hide it. Sansa wondered if they hurt, even now. They looked like pain lived there.

Across the quad, seniors were shoving their freshmen into ridiculous outfits and drawing all over their faces. Sansa had the sudden, sinking realization that all the thought she’d put into her outfit probably wouldn’t matter in about five minutes.

He started walking over. She started spiraling.

Hello, I’m Sansa. Hi, I’m Sansa. Hey, I’m Sansa. My name is Sansa Stark. Nice to meet you. I’m Sansa. I’m normal.

His scars sharpened the closer he came, but the way he moved—loose, unbothered—made it hard to focus on anything else. Sansa felt her pulse jump and prayed nothing showed on her face.

She managed a soft smile as he stopped in front of her. He was even taller up close.

She decided on:

“Hi, I’m Sansa.”

“Sandor,” he said.

His eyes were intense, his stare unflinching. There was a barely-there lift at the corner of his mouth, like he was privately amused by something about her.

He was handsome, she realized with a sigh. And the scar only made it worse.

Then he popped the cap off a Sharpie and looked at her—really looked. It might’ve been flattering if he wasn’t about to write something awful on her face.

But instead, he capped the marker. His hand came to her braid, oddly gentle as he slipped off the hair tie. Her breath caught. He undid the braid slowly, working upward, his knuckles brushing her neck as he pushed her hair back.

Sansa almost died.

He touched my hair. I still look cute. He is so fucking cool.

“That doesn’t count,” Johnny Knoxville yelled.

Sandor ignored him. He stepped behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders. Then he turned her slightly and leaned in, speaking low over her ear.

“That’s Brienne and Jaime,” he said. “They’re going to compete to see who can get their freshman to do the most shit off the list.”

Brienne was a tall blonde wearing an A.P.C. polo, high-waisted jeans, and penny loafers. She was drawing whiskers on a boy named Podrick, who was in a Minions onesie.

Jaime looked like Kurt Cobain, except his cardigan was from Acne and his jeans were YiTish selvedge denim. He was drawing a mustache and a unibrow on a kid named Gendry, who was wearing a tutu.

Sandor angled her toward Margaery and Johnny.

“That’s Bronn. Those two are going to do everything on that list.”

They were half-undressed, swapping clothes. Bronn pulled on her tank, stretching it at the seams. Margaery wore his shirt unbuttoned—push-up bra out—and took the hat and sunglasses.

A quarter turn and she was facing a big ginger guy standing with Samwell from her homeroom. Samwell had the word BALLZ written across his forehead.

“And that’s Tormund. Those two are going to do everything on the list that involves drugs.”

She looked over her shoulder and found his eyes already on her, their faces close.

“We don’t have to do any of it,” he said. “If you don’t want to.”

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

The list was irrelevant. What interested her was the possibility of spending more time beside him, doing anything or nothing at all.

“Alright,” he said, walking off. “We’re going to Jaime’s.”

Chapter Text

“So everyone takes turns rolling dice,” Bronn said. “If you roll a seven or an eleven, you pick someone to drink.”

“Or a double,” Sandor said, ashing out the window.

“Right. Double sixes is half a cup. Snake eyes is a full—”

Sandor swerved around a pothole big enough to drown in. Margaery let out a delighted whoop.

“Fuck!” Bronn said. “Why’d you go this way?”

“That fucking construction on Sowbelly.”

They talked about King’s Landing the way her brothers did about Winterfell. Name-dropping side streets like they were old friends. Arguing over shortcuts like it mattered.

Sansa only half-listened. Really, she was looking at Sandor’s arm in the sun, the way he coaxed the wheel through all the cracked, ruined bits of Visenya’s Hill. He didn’t slow down for any of it.

“Anyway,” Bronn went on. “You don’t touch the dice until the person touches the cup. They touch the cup, you start rolling again. Seven, eleven, or doubles mean they drink again—just a sip. Or you can keep rolling until you hit sixes or snake eyes. If they finish their drink before you roll something, then it moves on. But the cup has to hit the table before the dice settle. Oh, also if you touch the dice too early, then you drink and they roll.”

“No one is following any of this,” Sandor said, shaking his head. His eyes found hers in the rearview. “They’ll learn it later.”

Her stomach flipped. She turned toward the window, feigning interest in the blur outside. Sandor handled the drive the way he seemed to handle everything—practiced, as if the city arranged itself for him while she was still figuring out where she fit.

“You should pick the same person the whole time so they get really fucked up,” Bronn said.

“That’s what Brienne and Jaime do,” Sandor said. “But they take that shit too far.”

He parallel parked with unbearable nonchalance—mid-sentence, one-handed, still smoking.

Bronn hopped out and disappeared inside the corner store. Sandor got out too but kept a hand on the roof as he bent down, body angled toward the backseat.

“You want anything?”

She shook her head. Better to die of thirst than ask for something sweet and embarrassing. She’d only been drunk once—with Jeyne, the night before she left Winterfell. They’d waited for the house to go quiet, mixed everything they could find in her parents’ cabinet. Sansa had fun. Jeyne threw up.

“Can you get us green apple Smirnoffs?” Margaery asked.

His eyes skimmed over Margaery, then back to Sansa, an amused crease in his brow.

“Is that what you want?”

She felt it like a touch, his attention settling on her with quiet intent.

“Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”

He nodded once, pushed off the car and left.

“Randomly assigned, my ass,” Margaery said as soon as he was out of sight. “They chose us. They’re both such flirts.”

Sansa laughed.

“Bronn, yeah. Sandor isn’t flirting.”

Margaery gave her a look like Oh, come on.

“He isn’t. Guys are just like that.”

“Well, if you wanted to, you could,” she said simply. “Do you want to?”

Obviously.

“Maybe. I barely know him.”

“Get to know him. He’s rather good looking.” She shrugged. “Even with the scar.”

The boys came out of the store, laughing as the door swung shut behind them. Bronn had a 40 in a crinkled paper bag. Sandor held a case of beer with the kind of careless grace that invited attention without seeking it.

“Especially with the scar.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t argue. The way the sun hit made them look warm and reckless and miles older than they actually were.

: :

Podrick dropped the dice nowhere near the table, sending them skittering across the rug. Gendry chugged his sip of beer and slammed the cup like it was a race.

“Good job, Gen,” Jaime said.

“For gods’ sake,” Brienne groaned. “Drop them closer to the table. And keep your hand ready.”

Jaime lived in a spacious house downtown, full of light and high ceilings and furniture chosen with care. The place felt lived in, but softly, like only one person ever passed through. The thought struck her as both charming and a little lonely.

The game was fun in its messy way, though Sansa didn’t care much for beer. She stuck to the Fair Isle 75s Jaime had whipped up, lemon twist and all. Sandor and Brienne had rolled their eyes when he popped the champagne.

Brienne kept targeting Gendry, while Jaime went after Pod. Then they made the boys pick each other, which felt vaguely abusive. Bronn picked her or Margaery every time. Sandor always chose Bronn.

Bronn rolled snake eyes and pointed her way because of course he did. They fell into a ridiculous standoff—her hand an inch from the cup, his hovering over the dice. She kept faking him out, hoping he’d fall for it so she wouldn’t have to drink all that beer.

Sandor finally reached over, stole the cup, and drank for her. Margaery bit back a grin, badly.

Maybe he was flirting, she thought, her eyes fixed on the way he swallowed. She couldn’t be sure. Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t anything she was used to. Boys her age were always too obvious, sometimes cruel.

Later, Sandor made Bronn drink three cups back-to-back, then wandered off like he had better things to do.

That was a shame. She liked watching his hands.

: :

The sun was beginning to set, the whole backyard dipped in late-summer gold.

Sandor was by the pool, smoking. Light caught on the curve of his cheekbone, the scarred one. He turned when the door opened, looking her over once, then past her into the empty house.

“Where’d everyone go?”

“Brienne, Jaime, Gendry, and Pod went to steal a street sign,” she said. “Bronn and Margaery invited me to get tattoos with them. I didn’t feel like it.”

His mouth twitched into that half-smile as she walked over.

“You’re not into any of it.”

He didn’t say it like a question.

“Not sure. Can I see the list?”

He pulled out his phone, tilting it so she could see. Their arms came close, almost touching. It felt strangely intimate, their focus narrowing to the same screen.

Most of the list involved doing something sexual with a stranger or another freshman. She only wanted to do exactly this: stand outside next to him. She glanced up as he took a drag, shaking his head like he agreed it was all nonsense.

Her eyes drifted past the screen to the pool, to the list again. She lingered on Go skinny-dipping before deciding she wasn’t that brave.

“This one,” she said, tapping the screen.

Smoke a cigarette.

His lips pressed together, trying not to smile. He offered the pack. One cigarette was left, flipped upside down. 

“Oh,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “If it’s your last one—”

He placed it between her lips and lit it for her. She inhaled, praying she wouldn’t cough. She didn’t.

He lifted his phone and snapped a picture—too fast for her to smile or look away. For the initiation thing, she realized. He didn’t show it to her. Just tucked his phone away while she blushed and blew smoke. The way he watched her, she knew she pulled it off.

“Are you from here?” she asked.

“No. I grew up out west. Near Casterly Rock. But my dad—foster dad—moved us to Saltpans a couple years ago.”

“I’ve never heard of Saltpans.”

“You wouldn’t have,” he said, flicking ash. “It’s a tiny town in the Riverlands. We only moved because Ray wanted to join this commune out there.”

“Really. What’s that like?”

“Weird,” he said. “Couldn’t get into the spiritual shit at first. The vegan food. The quiet. And meditating all the fucking time.”

“But now?”

“It’s different now. Kind of miss it, sometimes. When I’m here.” He paused. “I haven’t told anyone this, but I’ve been thinking about staying there. After this year.”

“You wouldn’t go to college?”

“Think I’d rather work with my hands. And get out of the city.”

Her eyes widened in shock.

“You’re kidding,” she said. “You don’t like King’s Landing?”

“Not really,” he said, laughing under his breath. “It’s not my place.” Then he looked at her. “But you? You like it?”

“Yeah, of course. It’s King’s Landing.”

Her cigarette had burned out. She only noticed when she went for another drag. He leaned in and relit it.

“Where’d you move from?” he asked.

“Winterfell,” she said. “I love it there too. I really do. And it’ll always be home.”

“But you’ve wanted to live here forever.”

“I couldn’t wait to go to St. Baelor’s.”

“And is it what you thought it’d be?” he asked, amused.

She laughed.

“Gods, no. It’s way better.”

He exhaled smoke and let slip a small smile, barely there.

: :

They piled into Sandor’s car, all of them pressed in tight, voices overlapping. The city fell away as they drove north, toward the rural stretch where Tormund lived. Windows down, wind in her hair, Sansa felt something loosen inside her.

She paid maybe too much attention to the music—what they put on ironically (Drake), what they put on unironically (Death Grips). Mostly she wondered which ones Sandor actually liked. She wanted to know what he listened to when no one else was around.

She was on Margaery’s lap, warm and drunk. Bronn and Margaery had returned with their clothes swapped back, lips still sore from getting the King’s Landing area code tattooed inside.

“Um,” Podrick squeaked from the trunk space. He was crammed back there with a cooler and two skateboards. “These pictures aren’t going to, um… get uploaded anywhere, right?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bronn said.

Brienne had somehow gotten Pod to do nearly every item on the list—even in that Minions onesie—and now her phone was being passed around the car. Sansa scrolled through the pictures, a little impressed, wondering how they managed it. And where they found all those girls.

Most of the tasks were beyond Gendry, and after a while Jaime lost interest in competing with Brienne. They ditched the whole thing to play pool in some dive bar.

Sansa and Sandor had been outside for hours, talking. Just talking. Every time she thought the conversation might fade, it didn’t. Time slipped without her noticing, the sky going from gold to blue to dark. And when everyone came back, she realized she’d forgotten the party entirely.

: :

Tormund really did live on a farm in the middle of nowhere.

When they pulled up, people were already on the porch, by the barn, scattered across the yard. Cars were left wherever they fit. Laughter and shouting drifted over the open field.

Sansa hadn’t noticed how far they’d gone until she looked up. The stars were clear and close, the air cooler.

“Your brothers are here tonight, right?” Margaery whispered as they parked. “Introduce me?”

Sansa rolled her eyes but smiled.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s go find them.”

She didn’t like splitting off from Sandor. Ridiculous, she knew—they’d only just met. Still, she felt the shift as soon as she and Margaery walked away, toward the party.

She looked over her shoulder and gave him a small wave, low at her side. He shook his head, laughing once, and returned it. Then Margaery slipped an arm around her waist, tugged her close, and she let her gaze pull forward.

The party wasn’t anything dramatic, not at first glance. Just a place filled to the brim with teenagers in differing stages of abandon. Some were clearly fucked up and loud about it, like they needed everyone to know. Freshmen. Others were talking in small groups, drinking out of habit or boredom. Upperclassmen. The smell of weed made her nose itch a little.

“Sansa!” Theon yelled. “SansaSansaSansa!”

She spotted her brothers, the versions she’d never met. Drunk edition.

Robb and Jon looked cool, she decided as they walked up. They were relaxed, almost languid, eyes shining like they’d been laughing for hours. Theon was a different story: red-faced, drenched in sweat, hair stuck to his forehead like he’d sprinted five blocks to get here.

“Hey, sis,” Robb said, grinning.

“Hi,” she said, tickled by the novelty of running into her brothers at a party. “This is my friend Margaery. Margaery—Robb, Jon, Theon. And Ygritte, Jon’s girlfriend.”

“So how was it?” Ygritte asked, wiggling her brows. “Have you been initiated?”

“Gross,” Jon muttered.

“Sandor was very well-behaved, actually,” Margaery said.

“I told you he was cool,” Theon said, a little too loud.

“What—he didn’t try anything?” Ygritte asked. “Anything?”

“Of course not,” Sansa said, ignoring whatever Margaery was mouthing beside her. “We just talked. He was nice.”

She didn’t want to make more of it. The truth was just that: talking to him was easy. Too easy. His calm moved through her, made her guard slip. She leaned in, stopped managing how she came across. 

“Anyway,” Jon said. “Mom asked us to take you home tonight so make sure…”

A low, warm laugh rose behind her—his, unmistakably. She turned toward it without thinking.

Robb nudged her. “Sansa? You listening?”

“Yeah,” she said, flushed from more than the alcohol. “I’m listening.”

: :

“Jaime Lannister is not gay,” Brienne said.

They stood in a loose circle near the edge of the living room, letting the party unfold around them. Sansa said little, preferring that small pocket just beside the extroverts, where she could admire them without joining in.

Across the room, Jaime and Bronn were dancing to “212”—not together exactly, just close, their careless proximity quietly hot. Boys in her middle school would’ve died before dancing like that.

Renly snorted.

“How would you know? You had no idea about me for the longest time.”

“Even after you took us to get his nipples pierced,” Loras added.

Brienne huffed, then laughed despite herself.

“I just know, okay? Jaime is not gay. Bi, maybe.”

“Well, Bronn is definitely not gay,” Margaery chimed in.

At that moment, Sansa felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned—no one. She looked the other way and caught Sandor walking off, just the back of him slipping into the crowd.

“Wish he was gay,” Loras said, laughing as Renly smacked him in the chest.

Sansa felt a restless tug. She wondered how long she had to stand there before she could go to him without it being weird or obvious.

: :

“Little Stark!” someone called out. “Ginger assembly. Mandatory.”

In the kitchen, Ygritte was with the guy Sandor had pointed out earlier—Tormund. She waved her over.

“This is Jon’s sister?” Tormund asked, squinting. “They look nothing alike.”

“I know. She’s much prettier,” Ygritte said, inspecting her. “You haven’t done anything tonight?”

“You mean drugs? No.”

“Wanna do shrooms?”

Ygritte put a couple dry-looking mushrooms onto a slice of pizza and took a huge bite.

“Fuck that,” Tormund said. “She should do molly.”

Sansa hummed. “Maybe. You think it’s a good idea?”

“No,” he said, grinning wide. “But it’ll be fun.”

Sansa laughed and that’s when she saw him. Sandor, leaning against the door frame, two older girls leaning toward him. His eyes flicked to hers, quick and deliberate, then he excused himself and crossed the room.

“She should totally do molly, right?” Tormund asked loudly as Sandor reached them.

He didn’t answer, just waited to see where she landed. She made a face like she was genuinely debating it.

“It’s fun?” she asked.

All three of them went, “Yup.”

“It’s safe?” she asked.

“Tormund tests everything,” Ygritte said around a mouthful of pizza.

“Yeah,” Sandor confirmed. “If you want to, it’ll be fine.”

Sansa looked at him, bit her lip in a way that asked for his opinion more directly.

He rolled his eyes, smiling as he nodded: Go ahead.

“Okay,” she said. “But let’s do it together.”

Ygritte and Tormund whooped. Then Ygritte said something about not telling Jon, but it barely registered. What she heard was Sandor—his “Sure,” the laugh folded inside it, unsettling and steadying in the same breath.

Chapter Text

It was fun. A little too fun.

Nothing was actually happening. Sansa was in the bathroom with Margaery while a handful of girls posed in the bathtub, sitting side by side, their legs draped over the edge.

It was oddly sweet, the way they adjusted each other’s hair and tried not to laugh. She wondered if all the moodboard photos began in a scene like this—awkward in the moment, charming in the memory.

She felt good. Still herself, maybe more so.

The molly hit her hard. Her limbs felt loose and she liked that, but her mind kept skipping like a record. She slowed her breath, grounding herself through the peaks that made everything feel too interesting or too important. Every few minutes, a tight pressure rose in her chest and she had to pause, breathe, let it settle.

She checked the mirror and relaxed a bit. Same face, same girl. Though her pupils were huge. And when she focused too hard on her reflection—

“Whoa,” Margaery said.

Sansa blinked. Her left iris drifted inward, like it was trying to go cross-eyed all on its own while the right one stayed put. She looked away from the mirror. Normal again.

“Okay,” Margaery said, touching her arm. “Just… don’t stare at one spot too long.”

But Sansa was fascinated, and fascination won every time. She kept doing it—mirror, away, mirror—watching her eye do that strange thing. It was funny, until suddenly it wasn’t, and something tightened in her throat, some instinct telling her enough.

The bathroom pulled in close. The lights were bright in a way she didn’t love, leaving her slightly misaligned, one step sideways from everyone else.

She left without saying goodbye. She didn’t trust her voice. Her eyes stayed on the floor as she moved through the house, trying to walk, not run. The music, the noise, the strangers brushing past—it all felt a little too much, too many textures.

Better outside. Cool air filled her lungs, the quiet dulling everything else. Her shoulders dropped. Her jaw unclenched.

Sandor was already there with two guys she didn’t know, half-listening as they discussed second chances and free will.

“I’m telling you, man, people who’ve almost died come back different. It rewires something.”

He turned when he noticed her. He looked almost the same—still calm, still steady. Except his eyes were a little wider. And his jawline looked extra gorgeous.

“Hey,” he said. “Too much?”

She let out a small laugh.

“A little.”

Somehow, the second she admitted it, the feeling eased. 

He studied her, considering something.

“Wait here,” he said. “This is Beric and Thoros. They graduated last year. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.”

He went inside.

Beric and Thoros looked way too old to be at a high school party—Thoros with a beard and a man-bun, Beric in a faded drug rug.

“First roll?” Beric asked.

She nodded.

“Want to try something?” Thoros said. “Breathe with me. Real deep breaths.”

He inhaled like someone filling a balloon. She followed. Then exhaled everything out. They did it again. And again.

“Howmanytimesarewedoingthis?” she asked between breaths.

“Thirty,” Thoros said. “Twomore.”

She wondered where Sandor had gone, though the breathing was smoothing the knot in her chest.

“Okay, last one,” Beric said. “Don’t inhale. Just hold it.”

She held it. And the longer she held, the calmer she felt, like she could keep holding forever. When she finally heard Thoros breathe in again, she mirrored him automatically.

“Now hold that for fifteen seconds,” Beric said.

That’s when Sandor pushed the door open and stepped out. He took one look at them—at Thoros blowing out his breath in one whoosh, at Sansa doing the same.

“Fuck’s sake. What is that—Wim Hof?”

“Yeah,” Thoros said, breathing normally again. “But yours is better.” He nodded at the canister and box of whipped cream chargers Sandor was holding.

Sandor turned to her.

“Want to stay or go?”

“Go,” she said immediately.

“Okay. Come on.”

Sandor touched the small of her back and led her down the steps. She looked back at Beric and Thoros, mouthing a quick, sincere Thank you.

Then she followed Sandor to his car, relieved—stupidly relieved—to be near him again. He opened the door and she got in, making room as he slid in beside her. The backseat was dim and warm, the molly finally landing in the right way.

“Music?” he asked, tilting his head, trying to read her.

“No,” she said. “I like the quiet. I just want to know what you listen to.”

His lips pressed into that almost-smile, like her interest caught him off guard or maybe flattered him. He did that a lot.

“Uh,” he said, thinking. He loaded a charger into the canister and twisted. A sharp hiss filled the car. “Old Modest Mouse. First two albums.”

“What else?” she asked, scooting closer.

He put the nozzle to his mouth and inhaled in one slow, controlled breath. She watched his chest expand, his eyelids lowering—not asking what he was doing, just taking him in.

“Neutral Milk Hotel,” he said, his voice dipping in an odd way.

He went quiet then and she couldn’t help staring. She thought he was perfect like that, soft around the edges.

Then he unscrewed the top, letting the empty charger fall to the floor, and cracked another. He held it out to her, watching as she brought it to her lips. She pressed down too hard and it gave in one big burst—nothing like how he’d done it. He took it from her, keeping it angled at her mouth.

“Here.”

He released it for her—steady, just enough pressure. She inhaled about half, then pulled away.

Seven heavens.

She smiled. He finished the rest.

A low, underwater hum filled her ears, making everything feel far away. It didn’t last long—forty seconds, maybe. But it was immediately her new favorite thing. She could have done twenty more.

“What do you like?” he asked, already cracking another one.

“That,” she said. “A lot.”

He laughed. “I meant music.”

“Oh—um…”

Suddenly she couldn’t think of anything cool or obscure.

“Lana?” he guessed, the corner of his mouth lifting as he did another.

She laughed, somewhat embarrassed, but nodded.

“Not Taylor,” he said, his voice funny again.

“No, not Taylor.”

“Mazzy Star,” he said, cracking the next one for her.

She actually gasped. Which was probably a little dramatic. But he knew her. He saw straight through her.

He raised the canister to her lips again. She breathed in, the rush blooming in a soft flare. The car tilted and she let her eyes close, sinking into that pleasant off-balance feeling.

When she looked at him, he was right there, closer than she remembered. The space between them pulled taut.

Her heart stumbled. He stayed still, his breath touching her skin. She could see him reading her, waiting for the smallest sign she didn’t want this. Then he reached up and grazed her cheek—feather-light, giving her the chance to pull away.

She didn’t. She tipped forward and he met her halfway.

It started gentle, almost tentative. Then something broke open. His kiss turned urgent and firm, his hands moving from her face to her hair to her neck like he couldn’t stop himself. It felt like another wave of molly hitting—maybe it was or maybe it was just him, the way they were breathing into each other’s mouths.

She climbed into his lap and he caught her by the hips, pulling her close. She rocked forward without thinking and felt him there, hard already, making her gasp. Her sweater came off. He leaned back, watching her chest rise and fall, skin flushed.

“Fuck,” he said. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

His hands slid up, pushed the soft lace of her bralette aside. He groaned like it physically hurt to look.

“We should stop,” he said as he palmed her, squeezing, his thumbs brushing over her nipples.

“Why?” she breathed, still grinding against him.

He kissed her again, rougher this time, groaning when she sucked on his tongue. His hands ran down her waist, up her thighs, everywhere. Her skin felt lit from within, hypersensitive. When he pushed her skirt up, she sat back just enough to let him look.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, staring between her legs.

She was soaked through, the heather gray cotton of her Strangersday panties clinging dark. He started rubbing her clit through the fabric, drawing a soft whimper as her hips twitched into his hand.

“Have you done this before?”

“Yes,” she said. “But you do it a lot better than I do.”

His mouth curved, eyes flicking up to hers.

“No, I mean have you had sex?”

“That was my first kiss.”

Some sober part of her fell to her knees, mortified.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he said under his breath. He leaned his head back, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

Her hand trembled as she touched him through his pants. He was hard—really hard—and she rubbed, learning the shape of him, already desperate to see it. His hips jerked and he looked at her again, breath uneven. Her hands went to his waistband but didn’t go further.

Can I?

He nodded, though his face scrunched like he was bracing for something. She unzipped and pulled him out.

“Oh, gods.”

She’d seen boys naked before. In porn. This was better.

It was big, obviously. But it was also real and warm and veined with a slight curve. His cock stood straight up, throbbing in a way that looked painful. She wrapped her fingers around it, running her thumb along the ridge of the head, just to feel. Then she touched the slick bead at the tip and spread it around.

The sound he made when she began to stroke him made her pulse race. Definitely better than porn.

“We can stop,” he said again, pushing her panties to the side. “Fuck.”

“But I like you,” she said.

“We’re in my fucking car, Sansa.”

“You like me too.”

She leaned back, not overthinking it. She didn’t want to seem hesitant—she wasn’t. She pressed the length of him flush to her pussy and moved her hips slowly, his cock sliding through her, making wet, slippery sounds.

He groaned.

“Think I’m in love with you, honestly.”

Every shift of her body pulled a new sound out of him—needy, then strained, then rough. All of it ridiculously hot and flattering. She was breathing in short little gasps, feeling like she could cum from just that.

He gently pushed her hand away and gripped himself tight, angling the tip so that it pressed just inside.

“I don’t have a condom,” he mumbled.

“I’m on the pill.”

“I don’t know, Sansa,” he said as he dragged the head through her pussy and drew tight circles over her clit, making her whimper.

“I think it’ll be okay,” she said.

“You don’t know that.”

“Just be careful.”

“Don’t know if I can,” he said, giving her pussy a couple light smacks with his cock.

“Maybe we can go inside and see if someone—”

“Nope. Fuck it.”

He lined himself up, his other hand pressing down on her hip, steadying her. The tip went in, then a little more. Their eyes met.

“Stop if it hurts too much.”

Neither of them looked away as she sank onto him slowly, inch by inch. She liked watching his face change—the tension easing from being inside her, then returning from not being able to move.

It hurt. Not as bad as she thought it would. The pain was a sharp, pinching burn, but she didn’t feel scared because of the drugs or him or both. His jaw clenched, sucking air through his teeth. She bit her lip, holding it in. Then she was seated, stretched, completely full.

They sat like that for a moment, his cock pulsing inside her, eyes focused, waiting. But she didn’t think she could move—it’d only hurt more, and truthfully, she wasn’t sure what to do next anyway. She thought if it was going to hurt, she’d rather let him be the one to do it.

“Can we lay down?” she whispered.

He lifted her carefully, but she winced when he slipped out. He laid her across the seat and pulled off her shoes, then her panties, leaving the skirt, the knee socks, the bralette with the cups pushed aside. He moved to lean over her, almost fully dressed.

“Wait,” she said. “Can you take off your shirt?”

He let out a soft breath, maybe a laugh, then pulled it over his head.

“Oh, gods.”

He was beautiful. Big shoulders, a tight, defined stomach. His arms were the kind of muscled that read genetically blessed, not obsessed with working out. He knelt over her with his cock out—flushed, wet, and jerking in the air.

He kissed her slowly before pushing in again, groaning against her mouth.

His thrusts were careful, somewhat. Not really. It felt like he was trying, but he couldn’t quite avoid fucking her hard. It still hurt, but it was easier to ignore with his mouth trailing down her neck, then lower, closing around her nipple. One hand tugged her hair, the other dug into her hip but in a way she liked.

He slowed but didn’t stop.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said honestly.

“It hurts.”

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Not too bad.”

He seemed a little conflicted, but they both knew they weren’t stopping. Instead, his thumb slid over her clit and he watched as her mouth fell open.

He kept fucking her, harder again, rubbing patient, precise circles, intent on pushing her toward the other feeling. She didn’t try to control her face or the sounds she made. The way he was watching made her want to stay exactly like this.

“That feels better,” she said softly.

“Fuck,” he grunted. “Good. So good. Can you cum like that?”

She shivered. It didn’t hurt anymore.

“Can you cum for me?”

She nodded, biting her lip.

He really did touch her better than she ever could alone. The pain inside had gone, his cock pressing into a spot that felt good, building a sweet pressure that made her gasp and tighten around him.

“Oh fuck, Sansa,” he groaned. “That feels so fucking good.”

That was all it took. She came hard—mouth open, eyebrows pinched together—letting out a breathless moan that broke in the middle. Her whole body shuddered, thighs trembling against his sides, pussy squeezing him in quick pulses.

He held her hips and fucked her through it, not holding back. Every push felt almost too much now that she was raw and sensitive, her body jerking with every thrust. He gave her three or four rough strokes, then slammed in deep and stayed there, his face twisted into that awfully sexy strained look, like it hurt and felt good at the same time.

He pulled away immediately, cum spilling out.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. Fuck.”

“It’s okay.”

“Yeah, but—”

“It’s okay,” she insisted. “The pill. I’m like 99% sure.”

He wasn’t convinced, still staring with his jaw tight, thoughts written all over his face.

“I liked it,” she said, sitting up and putting her arms around his neck. “You made it feel good.”

“Fucking hell.”

“You say fuck a lot.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh.

“You won’t regret it,” he said, not like a question.

“No,” she said. “Will you?”

“Probably,” he said, leaning in, kissing the place beneath her ear.

“But you liked it,” she said, not like a question.

“Too much.”

She ran her hands through his hair, down his back.

“Do you think we should do more molly?”

He groaned into her chest, scars tickling her.

“Fuck, Sansa.”

“More of the whipped cream things, for sure,” she said, climbing into his lap.

“Whatever you want,” he said, pulling her closer.

“Okay,” she said against his lips. “I want to do it all again.”