Chapter Text
It takes less than two hours for his father to find him.
“Jaehaerys, there you are,” Rhaegar waltzes into his office without knocking, like he owns the place. Which, technically, he does, so Jon bites his tongue.
“Here I am,” he says back, though Rhaegar doesn't hear the sarcasm. Or maybe he does, and he's ignoring it.
“It's been too long,” Rhaegar hums, and when Jon looks up from his screen, he can see the frown on his father's face, and unease begins to build. Rhaegar doesn't frown very often, unless he's not getting his way. “You really shouldn't spend so much time up there.”
Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes. Rhaegar put him in charge of their Northern branch in White Harbor, and yet he isn't supposed to spend his time up there? What Jon assumes his father means is that it's harder to control him when he's not at headquarters.
He's proven correct with the next sentence out of Rhaegar's mouth. “We need to discuss your future.”
Jon leans back in his chair, wary, and waits for whatever his father is going to say next, though he thinks he knows what this is about. And sure enough-
“It's about time you settled down.”
“Not this again,” Jon groans, letting his head drop back and squeezing his eyes shut. He's been back for less than two hours, and already this.
“You have an obligation to this family.” He can tell Rhaegar is frowning again, even though Jon's eyes are still closed. “To uphold and further the family name.”
It takes all of his willpower not to remind Rhaegar that he'd spent a good fourteen years of his life not knowing the Family Name. Not until mom died and Rhaegar miraculously appeared to scoop him up and bring him into the fold. He'd grown up Jon Snow, not Jaehaerys Targaryen, no matter what Rhaegar insists on calling him.
“I've scheduled a date for you,” Rhaegar says, and Jon's eyes snap open and he sits bolt upright.
“No.”
“Yes.” Rhaegar's smiling now, a small tilt to his lips that Jon does not like at all. “Tonight.”
“No,” Jon tries again, but that smile doesn't disappear, and the dread builds in his stomach. “I have plans tonight.”
“You'll cancel them,” Rhaegar shrugs. “And any plans for the foreseeable future. I have dates lined up for the next month, and I'll keep making them until you find a wife.”
Panic rips through him, and he swallows against the rise of it. He needs to be calm and rational about this. He needs Rhaegar to listen.
“It's archaic,” he tries, though he knows this is probably the worst argument to start off with.
It's something he'd been horrified by when he was first brought into the Targaryen fold – the arranged marriages. Apparently it's extremely common and pretty much expected in the world of the ultra-wealthy to use marriages as alliances (as they call them), when in reality, they’re little more than business deals. He remembers when he was first brought to King's Landing, he got along best with his Aunt Dany, until they married her off at eighteen to some mogul over in Essos who manufactures parts for weapons. She's never said anything direct, but he often wonders how she felt about being sold off like cattle.
“You've already married off everyone else, I'm just the spare. A bastard,” he tries to emphasize. “Who would want a match with me?”
“You're a Targaryen,” Rhaegar frowns even harder, and Jon can feel the argument slipping away from him. “And the fact that I've managed to schedule you three dates a week for the next month, with plenty more clamoring for a chance, will tell you just how sought after you are.”
Jon feels nausea roil in his stomach, and he knows he won't win this. There's only one solution, he needs to-
“And no running away,” Rhaegar interrupts his thoughts, as if he can read Jon's mind. “If you do, I'll shut down the foundation.”
For a moment, the room goes silent, and Jon's sure he didn't just hear that. He couldn't have heard that.
The foundation - the Northern Children's Foundation, that he started five years ago. His side project, that he only got approval for because Rhaegar said the charity work made the company look good.
But for Jon, it isn't about the optics. It never was.
The North has some of the poorest communities in the entirety of Westeros. Last Hearth, Castle Black, all the tiny towns and villages dotted in the Gift and the far North, beyond where the Wall used to stand. Places that barely get clean water, where drug use soars and alcoholism is rampant, where most kids drop out of school by the age of sixteen.
Jon knows. He used to be one of those kids.
“You wouldn't,” he says, laying his hands flat on his desk so Rhaegar won't see them shake.
“Well, I don't want to,” Rhaegar sighs. “But I will if you keep acting out.”
Again, Jon has to bite his tongue, he clenches his teeth together hard enough he thinks he might crack his molars. Acting out. As if he's a child throwing a tantrum, and not a full adult refusing to get roped into an arranged marriage.
“Once you're married and we've secured an alliance, you can run back up there and leave your wife here, for all I care,” Rhaegar waves his hands idly, as if it means nothing. Jon knows Rhaegar's own marriage meant nothing to him. It's why Jon exists, after all.
Jon sits and tries to think of a way out of this, but he can't see one. He might run the foundation, but it's his father's money that funds it.
It's his freedom, or his foundation.
He has to choose one, and he knows which one it will be. He'll choose the kids, the families, every time.
“Fine,” he finally grits out. “I'll get married. Who's my date?”
Sansa sits at her easel, letting her eyes go soft so her painting blurs a bit in her vision. The sunlight streaming through her window, the gentle breeze, the soft hum of her painting playlist filling the space – she feels inspiration flow through her, and she refocuses her eyes and dips her brush into the blue-green she's already mixed.
Her concentration is interrupted by the sharp chirp of her phone, and she huffs in annoyance. She swore she put it on silent.
That annoyance disappears quick enough when she sees the name on display, and she sets her brush down and picks up her phone.
“Hey Margie,” she says, tucking her cell between her shoulder and ear and picking up her brush again.
“I need your help,” Margie says, sounding harassed and stressed, completely jarring with the meditative atmosphere Sansa has worked so hard on creating. She sighs and sets her brush down again, the mood ruined.
“I thought you had everything set?” she asks, wiping her hands on her apron and swiveling around on her stool to start recapping her paints, so they don't dry out. When Margie's like this, conversations are never short.
“Set?”
“For tonight?”
“Ugh,” Margie groans, though it half sounds like a pathetic whine. “I had everything ready. Then I got a call from Nana. She set me up on a date tonight.”
“So tell her you can't go,” Sansa suggests, though the minute the words leave her mouth, she regrets them. Margie's silent on the other end of the phone, and Sansa winces and says, “sorry.”
She's met Margie's grandmother a few times, and Sansa knows, just from those meetings, that there is no saying no to Olenna Tyrell.
“I need a favor,” Margie's tone changes, and Sansa recognizes it. It's the tone she uses when she's trying to get her way, and it usually works. “Go on the date for me.”
“What?” she laughs – actually laughs, because it's so ridiculous, she can't help herself.
“Please? Just... go, pretend to be me. Scare him off, you know the drill.”
Sansa rolls her eyes, remembering back to all of Margie's blind date stories – her different tactics for scaring the men away.
“Just tell your Nana you have something really important planned. She loves you, I'm sure she'll understand. She rescheduled that one date, remember?”
“Yeah, but that was with a Stokeworth,” Margie whines. “She won't reschedule this one. Apparently there's still a Targaryen out there without a ring, and Nana has decided this is our big chance to get in with them.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?” Sansa frowns. Her parents are wealthy enough and her name is old enough that she'd been sent to the same boarding school as Margie, but her family is nowhere near their level – nowhere near arranged marriage rich. She tries to remember if there was anyone named Targaryen at their school, but she comes up blank.
“They own Dracarys,” Margie explains, and that name absolutely rings a bell, and Sansa looks guiltily over at the tablet she uses for digital illustrations, the silver flame logo on the back.
“Right.”
It was originally an Essosi company, before they moved their headquarters over to Westeros a few decades ago, something about less restrictions on manufacturing, and now they're slowly taking over as the biggest tech company here, too.
It is wild how much Sansa knows about multi-billion dollar corporations, just from being friends with Margie.
“Please, Sansa?” Margie isn't playing anymore, Sansa can hear the real distress underneath. “I can't miss Asha's birthday.”
Guilt and sadness clench in Sansa's stomach, and she brings a hand up to cover her eyes, because she already knows she's going to do it. How can she not?
When Margie had tried to explain to her grandmother that she was gay and didn't want to marry some male heir, Olenna Tyrell had shrugged, said 'that's what affairs are for' , and continued to set her up on dates. Sansa had been horrified, and even more horrified when Margie wasn't. Margie had expected the reaction.
“I don't look anything like you,” Sansa says feebly, one last ditch effort.
“Nana sends out the same headshot to everyone, it barely looks like me anyway, and you know I keep my socials private as fuck. I've been on a million dates and most of these guys wouldn't notice if I sent a walking bear in a wig.”
“So send a bear in a wig.”
“Sansa.”
“Fine,” she groans.
“Yes! Thank you!” The relief in Margie's voice is palpable, and Sansa resigns herself to this. “It'll be easy! You'll get a free meal and all you have to do is deal with some asshole for an hour or two. It's like you're going on a regular blind date, except at a nicer restaurant and I'll let you borrow my clothes.”
“And scare him off?” Sansa asks, trying to fight against her sudden bout of anxiety.
“Please,” Margie laughs.
The thing is, though, Sansa isn't Margaery. They're best friends, but they're so different that sometimes Sansa wonders how they've lasted this long. Margie is... well, Margie, and Sansa has been told – more than once – that she is too nice for her own good. At first she'd taken it as a compliment, but as she gets older, she understands that it isn't one. She has a hard time telling her own dates she isn't interested in a second, but maybe she'll be better at scaring one off for Margie? She's always been better at standing up for other people.
“I love you,” Margie sighs, and it helps ease the anxiety that sits like a stone in the pit of her stomach.
“Love you, too. Now, go get ready for your actual date. And tell Asha I say happy birthday.”
Right, Sansa thinks as she hangs up. Go on the date, be as obnoxious as possible, scare away Whoever Targaryen.
Easy enough.
Marriage.
It's not like he's opposed to the institution, it's just...
Jon sighs, and signals at a waiter to come refill his glass. He'd ordered a whiskey for himself, and a glass of red for his date, who is now verging on fifteen minutes late. Her bio – because apparently these families send out resumes for their eligible daughters – said she likes red wine. He doesn't remember much else, he'd barely skimmed it. He hadn't even looked at the picture.
It doesn't matter.
He's going to marry this girl, he's decided.
The idea of staying in King's Landing and going on three dates a week for an indefinite period of time makes him want to jump off a bridge, so he needs to get this over with. Unless she's the worst person in the entire world, he'll pick her. The end. He knows Rhaegar had frontloaded the dates with his favorites, so Jon will comply. He'll marry Rhaegar's top pick, Margaery Tyrell, and then he can finally get back to White Harbor. Back to his real life. She can stay down here if she wants, and Rhaegar will be so happy, maybe he'll be willing to loosen the purse strings even more. Jon could get a lot done at the foundation with extra money.
Finally, she appears at the table, and Jon takes in the sleek black dress, the heels, the designer purse. Then, the giant sunglasses on her face, even though it's evening and she's inside now. Her hair is perfectly curled, with highlights that offset the chestnut color. She must have extensions in or something, because it seems like a lot of hair, and so shiny, he swears it looks a bit fake.
He stands, but she pulls out her own chair and drops into it before he has time to do it, which is fine enough with him. He doesn't mind pulling out chairs, but he also likes his partner being able to handle herself.
She takes off her sunglasses with a sigh, as if she's annoyed to be here, and Jon wonders if she feels like he does about all this. That's... a surprise. A pleasant surprise, actually. And if he's going to be pleasantly surprised, he might as well go ahead and notice that she's gorgeous. There's a small part of his brain that perks up, that thinks maybe this isn't so terrible an idea after all.
“What's this?” she asks, before she even introduces herself, or asks his name. She likely knows his name, just like he knows hers, but still, it would be polite to do introductions first.
“Uh, red wine?” he answers, when he sees her gesture at the glass waiting for her.
“I prefer white,” she sniffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
Jon doesn't know how to respond to that, the disdainful way she says it, like he's an idiot for not knowing.
“Sorry,” he says, forcing a casual, pleasant smile on his face. “Your grandmother sent us a list, it said you liked red.”
For a moment Margaery's eyes go wide, before her expression seems to ice over again. “Well, red was my favorite, but then Jessalyn said her favorite was red and I can't like the same things as Jessalyn.”
Jon blinks, utterly confused. Who the fuck is Jessalyn. “Alright,” is all he says, reaching for his glass of whiskey, though it's already his second and he needs to slow down. Any hope that this might not be completely horrible is fading away - fast.
Just get through the date, he tells himself. Get through the date, and then... marry her. That's the plan, isn't it? Marry this complete stranger, who showed up to the date nearly twenty minutes late and seems annoyed with him that he doesn't know Jessalyn's preferred wine.
Gods, he can't do this.
But then he thinks about it - the idea of more dates like this.
He tries to think about the foundation. His big plans to lobby for better infrastructure in the far North. He needs the Targaryen money for that. He needs the name.
“Your hair is really long,” she says, and Jon comes back to the conversation to see her lip curled into an obvious sneer that she makes no effort to hide.
Once again, he pushes down his annoyance, the biting response on the tip of his tongue. Luckily, he has a lot of practice with that, considering who his father is. He forces another easy smile onto his face, leaning back in his chair as casually as he can.
“It's actually shorter than it used to be. I run the White Harbor branch for Dracarys,” he explains, “longer hair is more traditional, I wanted to fit in.”
Not a complete lie, and less embarrassing than the truth. The truth was, he got so overwhelmed in his first months up there - being suddenly thrust in charge of an entire branch at too young an age - that he barely slept or ate, and he certainly never scheduled himself a haircut. At this point, though, he swears he's keeping it long because Rhaegar throws a fit every time they see each other.
“Where are you from?” he tries, hoping to steer the conversation into something less... hostile. That's the feeling he's getting from her. The vibe, as Aegon would call it.
“Highgarden.”
“Oh,” he's actually a bit surprised by that. “You sound almost Northern.” He swore he heard the familiar vowels rolling off her tongue – not as strong as his, not by a long shot, but still there. He watches her mouth pop open, then she shuts it and she presses her lips flat, as if thinking.
“I had a roommate at boarding school,” she eventually says, picking up the glass of red wine that she swore not even two minutes ago she didn't want. “She was Northern. We spent so much time together, I must have picked it up a bit.”
Jon isn't sure that's how it works, but he doesn't argue. “Where in the North?” She hesitates, eyes narrowing a bit on him, as if looking for some ulterior motive for the question, though he can't for the life of him figure out why, so he says, “I'm from Castle Black.”
“She's from Winterfell,” Margaery says slowly, cautiously, and Jon can barely hear the accent anymore, almost as if she's trying to suppress it, now that he's pointed it out. He didn't mean to embarrass her, but this date is already going horribly, so of course he did.
Jon rolls his shoulders, then leans forward, resting his arms on the table, and he isn't even surprised when she leans back abruptly, like she needs to maintain the distance between them. “Look,” he sighs, “I think maybe we started off wrong. I'm Jon Snow.”
“Jon Snow?” she frowns. “Am I at the wrong table?” She looks around, eyes wide, the coldness dropping from her face completely.
“I'm guessing my father didn't give you my birth name,” Jon winces. So much for restarting on a better foot. “He probably said it was Jaehaerys Targaryen.”
“So that's... not your name?” she asks, back to wary and guarded.
“Not if I can help it,” he almost laughs, because why is he even trying? They've been here for less than ten minutes and this is already a disaster. “Rh- my father tried to make me change it, but what a mouthful.”
There, he thinks, almost triumphantly, as the corners of her mouth twitch. He signals down a waiter, and when he arrives, Jon asks, “could we get a white instead, please?” while gesturing at Margaery's glass. “Did you want to see a list?” he asks his date, but she just shakes her head.
“Anything's fine,” Margaery says, her voice small. He'd say she sounds almost guilty as she gives a weak smile to the waiter. “Thank you.”
At least she isn't horrible to the waitstaff, he thinks. That would've been a dealbreaker for sure.
When the waiter leaves, he turns back to Margaery, holds out his hand, and says, “so I'm Jon.”
Another hesitation, before, “Margaery Tyrell.” Reluctantly, she extends her hand and gives his a shake. Her skin is as soft as he expected, though he notices calluses on two of her fingers, and he wonders if she's a writer or something. Though don't most writers type these days?
“Did you want to order food?” he asks, raising his hand, ready to call the waiter back.
“I already ate,” she says quickly, her eyes darting around.
Alright. She wants to cut this date short. He can't say he particularly minds.
“So, tell me what the food industry is like.” He finally allows himself to pick up his whiskey glass, and he takes a small sip, wishing he could down the whole thing in one go. He isn't used to having to carry conversations. It's exhausting. He tries to remember what Rhaegar told him about Tyrell Foods, but honestly, he'd barely been paying attention.
Instead of answering, she pushes back her chair, stands, says, “I have to go to the bathroom,” and then rushes away from the table.
“Answer your phone!” she whispers furiously as it rings and rings. She hangs up when she remembers why Margie won't be answering - there is only one thing in the world that can separate Margie from her phone, and that is Asha.
“Darn it,” she groans, pacing back and forth in the narrow bathroom, trying not to look at herself in the mirror. The brown wig is off-putting, and it makes her feel guilty more than anything. She really doesn't like lying. She also doesn't like cursing, considering she spends most of her days around children, but she thinks this might be a time to break one out. “Fuck,” she whispers, just to test it.
She can't do this. She's terrible at lying, and Margie didn't warn her that the rich asshole she's supposed to scare away would be attractive. It's really throwing her off.
And honestly, so is his demeanor. She came in hot, accused him of getting something wrong, insulted his looks, and he just sat there, completely calm. Aren't rich guys supposed to hate being told they're wrong? Where's his entitlement? Where's his short fuse? Margie promised this would be easy.
She pulls out her phone and quickly googles, how to scare off men. The first link is an article titled '12 Things Guaranteed to Scare Him Away'. Perfect.
Asking for commitment too early, being clingy, emotional outbursts, talking too much... One is being rude to others, but she knows she can't do that, not to the poor waiter. Sansa's a serial people-pleaser, being rude to him is already hard enough.
But clingy and rushing commitment? Those, she can do. She was trying for icy and distant, but that hasn't been working. Time to switch it up.
She heads back out, and catches a glimpse of him at the table. He's slumped back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes with the tips of his fingers, as if he's got a headache. That's a good sign, right? He straightens up and lowers his hand when she drops into her seat across from him.
“The lighting in there is awful,” she whines, taking out her phone and holding it up in front of her, like she's trying to take a selfie. She turns her face, moves the camera, looking for the best angle, making pouty faces the entire time. In the end, she does actually take a photo of herself, and then she spends a while sending it to Margie. The whole time, he's silent, but his hand keeps straying towards his glass of whiskey. Another good sign.
“So,” Jon clears his throat when she's finally set down her phone, though she doesn't put it away. She keeps it on the tabletop, hoping someone will text her and she can be rude and answer it. “You do work with your family, right?”
“Marketing,” she nods. “I'm great at PR.”
A mistake, she thinks, because Jon sits up a bit straighter, and he actually looks interested. “I think I'd be terrible at marketing,” he says, offering a half smile that makes something swoop in her belly that she absolutely needs to ignore. “I don't think I've got a creative enough mind for it, you know?”
She doesn't know what to say to that, hadn't been expecting him to admit some sort of flaw. “Not everyone does,” she says in her haughtiest voice possible, so he knows she means it as an insult.
“Yeah, I've always been better at numbers, I guess,” he shrugs, his voice gone a bit flat, but she can't figure out if he's actually insulted or not. He's infuriatingly hard to read. She's usually so much better at it.
This isn't working. Time to switch tactics, and as she scans her eyes over him, she finds the perfect opportunity.
“Oh, look at this,” she breathes, leaning across the table and reaching her hand out to run her fingertips along the band of his watch, where his hand rests on the table, right near his drink. “This must have cost a fortune.”
“Uh,” he says, drawing his hand back slightly - success! “It was a gift from my dad, I'm not sure how much it cost.”
She lets out a pleased hum and keeps her eyes on the watch, trying to look at it like she'd look at a new set of paints or her mom's lemon cakes. She drops her voice low and almost sultry. “I bet you have all sorts of nice things.”
“I'm guessing you like... nice things?” he asks, tone completely flat now, and Sansa has to resist the urge to smile. No one likes a gold-digger.
“I was made for nice things,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and then giving him a little pout. “Do you have a yacht? I bet you have a yacht.” She watches him suppress a sigh, and rejoices internally, though she tries to keep it off her face.
“I'm not a big fan of the ocean. I think my dad has one, or the company, but I've always been more into things like rock climbing or hiking.”
Sansa's face twists in disgust, and it isn't completely an act. Robb and Arya love that sort of stuff, and they once tried to rope her into it. It wasn't for her, she learned quickly.
While she'd been in the bathroom, the waiter had brought her white wine, and Sansa forces herself to pick it up and take a sip, even though she really doesn't like white. She has no idea why she said it, except to be contrarian. It takes all of her willpower not to grimace as she takes a gulp of it. The faster she's done her drink, the faster she can get out of here.
“You must make a lot of money, right?” she asks, setting her glass down. This seems to be the best route to go, she needs to keep it up. “What kind of car do you drive?”
“A Jeep,” he says. Then, “sorry to disappoint,” when she sticks out her bottom lip in a pout.
“Well, when we get married, you'll have to change that,” she says with a decisive nod. “I can't have my husband driving a Jeep.” She's adding in the commitment part now, and throwing in some nagging control on top of it. “And the hair,” she nods. “That has to go.”
“Does the rest of me pass inspection?” he asks, leaning back in his chair now, bringing the glass of whiskey to his lips. His wry tone almost makes her smile, but she manages not to. Her honest answer would be that he absolutely passes inspection - she even likes his hair, to her own surprise. But she isn't Sansa, she's Margaery right now.
“You'll do,” she shrugs eventually, after she makes a show of giving him a once-over, and to her surprise, he lets out a snort of laughter into his glass. “But you aren't the heir, right?”
“No,” he sighs, setting the glass back down. “That's Aegon, but you're out of luck, he's already married.”
“You'd still get an inheritance, though, right?” she presses. "A big one?"
“I really hope you're not planning to murder my father on our wedding night,” he says, and again, it almost makes her laugh, but she pretends she's too stupid to get the joke.
“Of course not!” she gasps, like she's horrified by his accusation.
“Well that's good,” he says, letting one corner of his mouth pull up into a half smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Because if dear old dad ever dies under suspicious circumstances, it'll turn into Clue real fast.”
“The game or the movie?” she asks, before she can stop herself.
His mouth stretches into a smile for real this time. “Both, I guess, but I'm picturing the movie. Everyone's guilty of something, but they all keep accusing each other. Absolute chaos.”
Sansa almost smiles, but she forces herself not to, and she sniffs, “well, as long as you get your inheritance eventually.” She gulps down another mouthful of wine, sets the glass down, then says, “well, this has been great, but my friends and I are going clubbing and I'll be late if I don't leave now.”
“Alright,” he nods, then reaches into his suit jacket to retrieve his wallet, and he pulls out a few bills and sets them on the table. She almost says something, because it's way too much for just a few drinks, but she doesn't. The waiter deserves a good tip.
Sansa stands, and so does he, and she realizes he's going to walk her out. Great. She quickly pulls out her phone and orders an Uber as she makes her way out of the restaurant. He follows.
Outside, she keeps her eyes glued on her phone, though she's only opening and closing all her social media apps over and over. He stands next to her, his hands in his pockets, and she realizes with a sinking feeling that he's going to wait with her. Her Uber is ten minutes away.
“So,” he says after a bit of silence, clearing his throat before he does. “I suppose I'll be up front about this.” She lowers her phone and turns to him. He's looking up at the night sky and she does not admire the line of his throat or how sharp his jaw is beneath his beard. “I need to get married, soon, so I can get back to my real life.”
“What?” she asks. Its the only word she can manage.
“It seems like we're on the same page with this,” he finally turns to look at her, and she nearly takes a step back.
“We are?”
“You want my money,” he shrugs. “I need a wife. Seems fairly straightforward.”
Her throat is completely dry and her stomach churns with acid, the white wine threatening to come back up. “I-”
“I appreciate your honesty,” he continues. “This whole thing...” he lets out a huff of a laugh and looks back up at the stars. “It was never going to be about love. At least you're honest about that. I'm not big on games.”
Oh no, are the only words rattling around in her brain, though they stick in her throat, and all she can do is stare at him.
“I work in White Harbor, that's where I live full time, but you'd be allowed to stay down here. It would be a marriage in name only,” he keeps going, though she wants him to stop. She needs him to stop. “I know you work for your family, but since money is important to you, we could negotiate a monthly stipend. The lawyers would take care of that, along with the prenup. And we can discuss children-”
That's where Sansa nearly loses it, and a sound she can't explain escapes from her throat.
“If you don't want any, that's fine," he backtracks, looking at her again. "I suppose I always wanted some, but if you don't, I won't force it on you. Or if you do, but don't want to carry them, we can look into adoption. Or artificial insemination, if you do. Unless you wanted to try the old-fashioned way.” He grimaces, then, and she swears she sees the tips of his ears go red. “But again, it's all up to you. Does that sound like a good deal?”
Sansa keeps staring at him, it's all she can do. What is wrong with him?
One date – one horrible date and he's basically proposing to her? Who does that?
If she says no, he'll wonder why she kept talking about marriage before, he'd realize she's been lying to him. She absolutely can't say yes. And she can't tell him she isn't really Margaery Tyrell, either, because he'd either tell his own father, or go straight to Olenna, and Sansa doesn't want Margie to get in trouble. Olenna is understanding enough when Margie tells her the men she goes out with simply can't handle how independent she is. But this? Sansa can only imagine how angry Olenna would be.
Her eyes go to her phone. Her Uber is still five minutes away.
She looks back at him to see him watching her, with that same calm, steady expression on his face, as if what he's just said is completely rational.
What does she say? What does she do?
Panic seeps into every limb, into every nook and cranny of her body, and she does the only thing she can think of.
She runs.