Chapter Text
Sansa Stark’s position as Queen Bee has never been more precarious.
Not only did she lose one of her best status symbols - her rich, handsome boyfriend - but she lost said boyfriend to her best friend. Well, ex-best friend, now, but she’s not allowed to say that out loud.
She knows it’s bad when she sees Joff and Margie in the hallway and ducks into the bathroom so she doesn’t have to face them. Sansa has never, in her whole life, hidden from someone. She is Sansa Stark.
Unfortunately, she can’t avoid them forever. When the bell rings, she braces herself before entering the lunchroom, eyes immediately finding their table, and the relief that washes through her when she doesn’t see either of them is honestly embarrassing.
It turns out, Margie is sitting with Joff’s friends today. Just like Sansa used to.
Their friends all give her side-eyes when she sits at the table that she does her best to ignore. They’re looking for cracks in her facade, she knows.
Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? Margie had asked her, in front of the whole cheer squad, if it would be okay for her to date Joff, and Sansa had been so flustered, so taken off guard, that she’d said yes. With her permission, Margie wasn’t breaking any Rules, and therefore, couldn’t be kicked out of the group. Sansa isn’t allowed to be mad.
And now, Sansa’s heard that Margie is going to run for Homecoming Queen. With Joff, and therefore the basketball team, on Margie’s side, Sansa’s not so sure she can beat her. Even now, Sansa can see the way her own friends are wavering, like they know at some point they’ll have to pick a side.
“You could still win,” Jeyne insists, though it only makes Sansa’s face go hot. Jeyne is only in the popular group because she’s Sansa’s friend, and when Sansa became popular, she brought Jeyne with her. Jeyne’s always been on her side, but right now she wishes Jeyne would leave it alone. Bringing it up just reminds the other girls of her slow, fumbling fall from grace.
“Are you planning to run solo?” Alla asks, her voice too casual. Alla is Margie’s cousin, and Sansa eyes her suspiciously. How is it possible that Margie can still undermine her when she isn’t even present?
“Who even needs a boyfriend,” Sansa snaps, embarrassment sitting hot and ugly in her chest. It feels like her whole life is teetering on the edge of ruin, all her friends ready to abandon her at the first sign of weakness. “I’m popular enough to win on my own, without a boyfriend.”
She hopes her friends hear the underlying message - Margie needs a boyfriend to win, not her.
“Sounds like you’re pretty sure of yourself,” Alla hums. It makes Sansa’s spine go rigid, her heart thrumming so fast she thinks she might faint.
If she doesn’t handle this right, she’ll lose everything. Her clique, her social status. Homecoming Queen, Prom Queen. Her legacy at this school will be ruined, and she’ll spend the rest of the year an outcast with no friends. She’s worked so hard for everything, only to watch it crumble around her. All because she dared to break up with Joffrey over the summer.
“I am,” Sansa says, raising her chin stubbornly.
“You’re just so popular,” Alla gushes, though Sansa hears the insult beneath Alla’s sugary sweet tone. “I bet you could even She’s All That someone.”
“What?”
“You know, She’s All That? The movie we went to see for Elinor’s birthday?”
Sansa does remember, but that was all the way back in February, when they were juniors and Sansa didn’t have a care in the world. Now they’re seniors, and Margaery is trying to stage a coup.
“I’m sure I could,” Sansa shrugs. She is confident and unbothered by Margie and Joff and the prospect of losing everything she’s worked so hard to build.
“So do it.” Alla leans forward, a smile curling her lips up. The rest of the table is tense and silent. “Make some loser into your King. You’re popular enough, right?”
Sansa’s hands are shaking, so she lets them drop beneath the table. She’s never liked confrontation - she became popular because she was overly nice to everyone, even when she had to do it through gritted teeth. “What does that even mean?” she asks. She knows what it means, but she’s trying to buy time, trying to figure out a way to get out of this. “What qualifies a loser versus someone who just isn’t in the popular groups?”
“Please,” Alla rolls her eyes. “You know a loser when you see one. But I shouldn’t be surprised, you did always love rules to follow.”
Sansa bristles even further, cheeks flaming. She is a rule follower. Margaery was always more daring.
“So girls, let’s give her some rules.”
There’s a slight hesitation, as if the rest of them aren’t sure they want to join in on this, but then - “they can’t be on a sports team.” That’s from Elinor, and Sansa resists the urge to glare at her. Traitor.
“They can’t be from our side of town,” Megga adds on with a nervous giggle. What she means is that they can’t be rich.
Sansa makes a show of rolling her eyes. “I know what a loser is, guys. I don’t need rules. Can we all agree that nerds and burnouts are fair game?”
At everyone’s nod, Sansa nods. “Great. I’ll pick some loser to make over, and I’ll take him to Homecoming. I don’t even care if I win.”
That’s a lie, but she hopes she sounds confident enough. She’s not sure it works, from the way all her friends keep darting glances at each other.
By the end of lunch, Sansa has a plan.
If there is one thing she excels in, it’s coming up with a plan. She hasn’t written any of it down like she usually does - bullet points and lists and color-coded highlights - but that’s okay. She can do that later.
Right now, she has a burnout to recruit.
“Jon!”
Said burnout flinches, and he slowly leans back to see around his locker door. He clearly hadn’t heard her approach, and he eyes her warily, then scans the hallway - looking for what, she doesn’t know.
“Sansa,” he finally nods.
“It’s been such a long time, how are you?” Sansa gushes, holding her books tight to her chest, megawatt cheerleader smile on her face.
Jon blinks owlishly at her, looks around the hall again, before saying, “uh, good. You?”
“I’m so good, ” she enthuses, though at his raised eyebrow, she realizes she might be overdoing it a bit. Deciding to tone it down, she asks more calmly, “how’s your mom?”
“Good. Still at the salon.”
“I know, my mom still goes.”
Sansa’s mom has been going to Joy Salon since… well, for as long as Sansa can remember. When she was little, Sansa always wanted to go with, so she could watch the ladies get their hair done and listen to all the adult gossip. Mom’s hairdresser, Ms. Lyanna, used to bring her son when she couldn’t find someone to babysit him, which turned out to be a lot of the time. Sansa spent plenty of hours sitting in the waiting area of the salon making Jon Snow play Barbies with her.
But that was ages ago. She hasn’t spoken to Jon since at least the sixth grade, when she finally grew boobs and stopped going to the salon because hanging out with her mom wasn’t cool.
“Right,” Jon says, and Sansa realizes they’ve just been standing at his locker in silence. “Did you need something?”
Here goes nothing.
“Yes, actually. A favor.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard what it is yet!”
Jon sighs and closes his locker, but he doesn’t slam it, which she takes as a good sign. “I don’t need to. You’re not to be trusted. You used to scam me into doing all sorts of things I didn’t want to do.”
Sansa rolls her eyes. “I didn’t scam you into playing Barbies-”
Jon lets out a noise, looking around the hallway again. “Don’t say that out loud!”
A smile is tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Say what out loud? That you used to-”
With a huff, he starts walking away, and she hurries to catch up, biting back her laughter.
“Jon, wait,” she calls. He picks up pace - his legs are longer, but she is determined and so she keeps pace with him until he turns into an unused classroom.
“God, fine,” he groans when he realizes he hasn’t lost her. “Pitch me your favor, then I can say no, and we can go about our lives.”
Sansa takes in a deep breath, mentally goes over her plan, and says, “I want to She’s All That you.”
Jon stares at her like she’s grown a second head. “I… don’t know what that means.”
“The movie? She’s All That?” When he just keeps staring at her, she feels her confidence falter a bit. “It came out earlier this year?”
“Never seen it.”
Of course he hasn’t. If there’s one thing she remembers, it’s that Jon Snow has to make everything harder than it needs to be. “It’s about a guy who makes a bet with his friend to turn this unpopular girl into prom queen.”
“You want to make me prom queen?”
It’s Sansa’s turn to groan, and she reaches out and slaps at his shoulder, which only makes him laugh. “Don’t be a jerk!” she huffs. “My friends are being… look, it’s too much to go into right now, but I have to find a loser to make over and take to Homecoming.”
“You’re calling me a loser?” he asks, trying to sound incredulous, but then he looks down at his outfit, sighs, and says, “alright, yeah, that’s fair.”
A bubble of laughter escapes her at the resigned look on his face. “To clarify, it could be a loser, nerd, or burnout. I think you qualify for the third category. Maybe the second, too.”
For one, he’s in a band, but not a cool one. He plays Dungeons and Dragons. His hair is too long, his clothes are painfully unfashionable… but what solidified it for her was his attitude. Everyone knows Jon Snow hates authority and thinks the popular kids are evil. He’s very vocal about it.
“Well, this is very flattering, but I’ll have to pass,” he deadpans. He doesn’t even look offended.
“Wait,” she gasps, grabbing onto his arm as he starts to head for the door. “Please?”
He snorts and says, “I’m sure there are hundreds of losers in this school that would die to have Sansa Stark take them to prom. I’m sure you can find someone else.”
“But it has to be you!” she insists, refusing to let go of his arm.
"Has to be? ” he asks, brows raising. “Why me?”
“Because,” Sansa whines. “They said I had to pick a loser, but they didn’t say I couldn’t pick one with good bone structure.”
For a moment he only stares at her. “Good bone structure?”
Another roll of her eyes, because he’s being so difficult. “Yes, Jon, you’re handsome. If you literally tried even a bit, you could be popular. Is this news to you?”
“I don’t want to be popular,” he says, but there’s no venom in his voice, and his hand is awkwardly rubbing at the back of his neck.
“Yes, I’m well aware,” she sighs. “You’ve made it very clear you think we’re all shallow idiots.”
He shifts on his feet, still rubbing at the back of his neck, eyes looking at anything but her. “Come on,” he protests, but it’s weak. “Don’t do that.”
She puts on her best wavering voice and her best fluttering eyelashes and her best quivering lip. “Maybe you’re right,” she says. “Maybe I am shallow and stupid and the most I’ll ever be is Homecoming Queen, and now I won’t even be that-” Her voice pitches up with every word, until it sounds like she’s on the verge of tears.
It works.
“f*ck, don’t cry, ” he winces. “Look, I guess I can help…”
“You will?” she sniffles. He looks like he’d rather do anything else. “Do you promise?”
But still, he says, “I mean, if you absolutely need it to be me-”
“I do!” she squeals, a smile back on her face, bouncing on her toes in excitement. “So it’s a deal!”
“Wait, what-”
“Should we start this weekend? I’m thinking we begin with the obvious.”
“The obvious-”
“I’d say we start Saturday bright and early, but I feel like you’re the type to sleep in until noon, so noon? Give me your address, I’ll come to your house. We can start with your skincare and hair routine.”
“Wait, I didn’t actually mean-” he sputters. “You tricked me.”
“It’s not my fault you forgot how good of an actress I am,” she says primly. At least once a play session, one of her Barbies would have something dramatic happen, and Sansa would fake cry every time.
“You’re a monster.”
“No, I’m just very good at getting what I want,” she says, giving him her sweetest smile. “Now, you promised, and you can’t go back on that.”
“Yes I can. Who says I’m a man of my word? I’m just a loser burnout, right?”
With a heavy sigh, she says, “are you going to keep getting hung up on that? We already agreed you’re only that by choice. And you promised.”
“You’re not going to let this go until I agree, aren’t you?”
“Nope.”
She sees when he relents, his shoulders sagging. “Fine. But I get to veto any stupid choices, and you owe me.”
Sansa hesitates, because she doesn’t like agreeing to an unknown favor, but she doesn’t really have a better choice.
“Agreed. Shake on it?”
She holds out her hand, and after one last hesitation, he reaches out and takes it.
