He is handsome, Sansa thought as Jon descended the stairs of her home. His eyes lightened at the sight of her, and Sansa couldn't help but smile at the man who looked so familiar and so much like Father and home.

"Do you know what a King needs most in his life, Sansa?" Littlefinger asked her, his soft voice running against her ear. Sansa looked over at Jon, who was silently breaking his fast, but from what she saw, he perhaps did not have the appetite today.

"Good counsellors?"

"No, My Lady. What he needs most," Petyr's voice was but a whisper now.

"Is a Queen."

Sansa frowned. It seemed ridiculous to her. There was war and death around them. She could hardly convince herself that Jon would even think of a wedding in such times.

Petyr must have read her thoughts, as impossible as it may sound, for he took her hand beneath the table.

"Look around you Sansa. This Winterfell that your ancestors built has been passing down in the name of Starks. And now look at your half-brother." She did, and realized what the man was getting at. "He may look like your Father, but he is not your mother's son. He is not true Stark blood." His voice softened. "Unlike you, my Lady."

"Jon has defeated the Boltons, and proved himself a Stark."

"Do you believe that by merely defeating an enemy and taking Winterfell in his name makes him a Stark? The righteous ruler? Then what of the Boltons? They did the same. Defeated your family, and took Winterfell. Did they have the right to it then?"

Sansa listened closely, yet her eyes were on Jon. He stabbed his food uninterestedly with his fork. His gaze reached so long that Sansa wondered if he was even present in Winterfell or was he across the Narrow Sea.

"What exactly are you proposing Lord Baelish?" She asked, her patience wearing thin.

Petyr leaned back in his chair. Sansa watched as Jon abandoned his food and walked out of the Hall.

"I know of ruling, My Lady. As I have said, a King needs a Queen. And for Jon Snow, his might be nearer than he thinks."

Sansa did not catch his meaning, and turned to look at him. His grey-green eyes were directed at her, and Sansa understood the meaning of his words instantly, making her almost jump in her seat in shock.

"Surely, Lord Baelish, you do not mean-"

She could not say the rest. It sounded like a sin to her ears.

"This castle and the North is yours by birthright. But I see no way in which Jon will give you his crown. He's been tempted and taken in by it." He gave her a sickening grin. "If you cannot be his superior, then you must try and be his equal."

Sansa's breath caught in her chest. The proposal was horrendous, but she would not deny that in the depths of her heart, she believed herself to be equally, if not more, worthy of ruling the North. She had her mother's grace and her father's blood, and she had the knowledge of Petyr to make her a Lady capable of things not many women of her age were capable of.

Marriage, however, sounded too much of a burden. And that too, with Jon. She wondered if the ghost of her dead mother were roaming these Halls, and if she would be ashamed that Sansa even brought such a thing to her mind.

"I cannot marry Jon," she told him, truthfully. "I do not believe he will have me."

It was true. Jon was her father's son, no matter what anyone said. He had the same honor her Father had, and she doubted his honor would let him even look at his half-sister in such a way. Jon was different from before, she would not deny that. He was less sad and more. . . angry. He was a King, as Kings of the North ought to be, hard and judging and a warrior, but he wasn't without honor, far from it.

"Is that it?" The Mockingbird pin on his chest shone. "Had you not made dear Harrold's eyes brighten with love for you? You know how these games are played. It will not be different with His Grace."

Yes, Sansa wanted to say. But Harrold is not Jon.

It had been a tiring effort for Sansa to make friends with Jon. Keeping in mind that they had barely even looked at each other as children, there had been a fair amount of silence and one-worded replies shared between them. Jon spent an outrageous amount of his time in his solar- her father's solar, she reminded herself- and she had not failed to notice that it wasn't just her. Jon barely spoke with anyone.

"And if it is different? What if he thinks I'm absurd for thinking of such things?"

"He wouldn't. He knows of the consequences of a Kingship. He knows he will have to wed someone sooner or later, even if he is against it." Lord Petyr leaned close to her ears. "There will be dragons among us soon, My Lady, and a Queen. Our ambitions will be done for, if we do not hurry. Even a man like Jon Snow would not hesitate to choose a Queen over a Lady, as lovely as you might be."

He rose to his feet, and left her with a lowly bow. Sansa felt as if all the strength had been seized from her body. Her food was bland as she tried to put in her mouth, and she pushed the cold, hard bread down her throat with a glass of water.

It was an impossible task Lord Baelish had set her to do, but she could not but feel a sense of want rush over her at the thought of being the Queen in the North. Petyr wasn't lying when he said she had the better claim. She was the older daughter, not that it mattered, for she was certain she was never to lay her eyes upon her wild younger sister again. Robb was gone, and Bran, who was possibly the second in line for succession, was as lost as Arya was.

She thought of her mother. She had raised Sansa for this. She had tended to Sansa's hair, made her look as pretty as a maid could be, sewed her the most beautiful of dresses, hoping that she would someday be a Lady of great stature or a Queen. Would it matter if she were to abide to her mother's wishes and take her seat beside Jon, the seat that was by all rights, hers to take, even if the means weren't to her taste?

Sansa found her cheeks flushing. It would be hard, and she would have to try a hundred times harder than she did with young Harrold. She would have to try and bend the will of a rigid Northerner, whom Sansa had never seen even look at a woman with interest. She would have to make conversation with a man who was used to keeping to himself.

Love can change a man, she thought. She could show him what she was capable of giving him, and she only prayed that her efforts would bear sweet fruit.

She followed Jon into his solar one day. He was obviously displeased, but made no objection when she took a seat beside his own chair.

"Is it something important Sansa?" He asked. She could feel that her presence wasn't welcome, but she refused to leave, not without making at least some progress.

"You looked sad," she said, tentatively reaching out to touch his arm. Jon visibly flinched.

"I am fine, Sansa," he said, voice deepening.

"I know we aren't the best of friends, and as a child it was Arya who used to comfort you bu-"

"Do not speak her name," Jon interrupted her, his words biting. Sansa froze, but did not take back her hand.

"I know she is dear to you, I just wante-"

"Stop it!" Jon held her wrist in his hand with such brutality Sansa thought he would break it in two.

"Stop speaking her name!" His eyes burned with unseen flames. "What would someone like you know of what she meant to me? You think I don't see what you're doing, Sansa?" She flinched in fear.

"Please leave," he said, calmly. But she heard the anger hidden beneath. Jon let go of her hand, and Sansa walked away from him, forcing herself not to shed tears and hold her head high.

As she closed the door to his solar, she felt like emptying the contents of her dinner on the floor. A wretched envy grew in her breast. Her sister, even when dead, meant more to Jon than a living person did. That girl who was nothing but a nuisance and looked like an urchin. Sansa never understood why they cherished her so much, her father and Jon. She had never felt such an envy for Arya in her life.

A dead person. I am blaming my dead sister.

Tears welled in her eyes. It was changing her, she realized. Her plan and her plotting, they were turning her into someone she did not like.

Two fortnights later, a storm arrived in Winterfell in the guise of Arya Stark.

Her sister, who had been a mass of bones and skin, not even close to being pretty as a child, had returned to Winterfell in all her glory. Long dark hair, grey eyes and pale skin- she looked nothing less than a beauty. Even when she dropped the cloak to reveal her ragged and old breeches, none could take their eyes away from the woman in front of them. Sansa stepped forward, ready to take her sister in her arms, differences forgotten, when one look at Jon Snow stopped her in her tracks.

It was then she saw, that the brother whom she thought so capable of honor, whom she had never seen bat an eyelash at any woman, the one who she believed would be disgusted at the thought of wedding her, looked at her younger sister with a maddening hunger in his eyes that left nothing to the imagination. Possibly every man standing there knew then-

That Jon Snow wanted his little sister in his bed.

At least now you know that he has no objection against wedding or bedding a sister.

Sansa walked through the empty hallways to Arya's chambers.

You are prettier, My Lady, and your sister, as brave as she may be, is ill-suited to be Queen. So, I urge you not to lose hope and keep still.

Sansa barged in without a knock.

"Arya!"

Her sister was naked as the day she was born. Sansa's eyes roamed over her. Her breasts were not as big as Sansa's, but they were not very small either. Her waist was tiny, and her damp hair flowed down her back to the middle of her spine. Her hips were full, and skin a creamy white. The only things that veiled her beauty were the scars that were marked all over her body. From dark to fading brown to light red. There was one gash that ran from the middle of her abdomen all the way to-

Before Sansa could see, Arya covered her body with a robe.

"Have some decency, sister," Sansa chastised her, and closed the door. "What if a man had walked in on you instead of me?"

Arya shrugged, and twisted her hair to squeeze out the water.

"I knew it was you."

Sansa raised an eyebrow.

"Do you have an invisible guard outside your door sister?" She japed, clicking her tongue.

Arya sighed.

"I know how you walk and I heard it," she said, tiredly.

"You recognized my footsteps?" Sansa almost laughed in incredulity.

"Kind of."

Arya leaned down and picked up a dagger from the floor. It was the first weapon Sansa thought to be pretty. It had stones of exquisite colours embedded on the hilt, and it shone brightly even in the dim light of the room.

"It's pretty," Sansa said. Arya looked at her in surprise, as if she wasn't expecting it, then curled her lips into a smile.

"It is, isn't it? It was a parting gift from a dear friend," her sister replied, and Sansa saw her eyes lighten.

"A lover?" She asked, a thread of hope binding itself around her heart. She prayed that her sister had left a lover behind in Braavos, and yearned for him still, and had no interest in Jon.

Arya shook her head, chuckling.

"Just a friend, Sansa," she said and sat down on her bed, patting the space beside her as an invitation to her.

"I came here to tell you something," Sansa said.

"Go on."

Sansa took a deep breath.

"There has been talk of Jon needing to take a wife, and- I have been named as one of the choices."

Sansa waited for her sister's response. A shriek of horror, or anger, or would she be sad, she wondered.

"Oh."

That oh from her lips sounded like music to Sansa's ears.

"So you have no objection?" She asked, her voice ten times more relieved than it was five seconds ago.

"Why would I?" Arya asked and frowned. "I know little of marriages, sister. And besides, if Jon wants you and you want him, I do not see the problem."

Sansa felt like a giddy child. And relieved- that she did not have her sister as her rival anymore, and from the way Arya talked, Sansa had not a doubt that her sister did not harbor any love for Jon other than brotherhood.

Sansa took her leave, her legs feeling lighter. She closed the door to Arya's room and slept soundly that night, believing with all her heart that her aim was not out of reach anymore.

She had been curious to see who this Daenerys Targaryen really was. She had been hearing rumours- of her beauty, of her dragons, and even the thought of watching a Targaryen in flesh and blood made her excited.

Jon had been summoned to Dragonstone, and he would leave in less than a moon's turn. Sansa was aware that this meant she had to fasten her hold on Jon, to make sure he wouldn't be swayed by the beauty of the Dragon Queen. Everyone wanted the North, and Jon, being Jon- handsome and King and a warrior, would undoubtedly catch her eye.

There had been talk of this- of his betrothal, but Jon had refused to discuss the matter with anyone. Sansa Stark was the first name that had been uttered, and she had held her head high with pride, glancing once at Lord Baelish to see a knowing smirk on his face.

When Jon did not directly say no to marrying her, Sansa decided that it was time to make her advances. She wore her best dress that day, and wore her hair like a Northern Lady instead of a Southern one, and went to seek him.

It was tiring walking around the castle, and it seemed no one, not even Jon's squire had any notion as to where the King might be. Sansa's feet ached, and she almost thought of giving up her search when her eyes fell on the entrance of the Godswood. There, beneath the falling snow, was a lone soldier standing as if he was guarding something. Gathering her skirts in her hands, Sansa walked over to him, and he lowered his head when he saw her.

"Have you seen the King, Ser?" She asked. The Knight flushed a little. Sansa wouldn't know if it was the cold or not.

"He's in the Godswood, Lady Stark," he answered. Sansa walked to pass him, but he stopped her with a gentle hand.

"I apologize, My Lady, but the King has ordered that no one is to disturb him."

Sansa narrowed her eyes.

"Is he praying?" The Knight flushed again, and his time it was definitely not the cold.

"Is he alone?" Sansa asked this time, her voice going low and hard. The Knight seemed unsure as to what to say, and she already knew the answer.

"Ser, this is my home. I will have no restrictions imposed on me in this place, not even by a King."

The man looked troubled. Sansa smiled at him.

"Do not worry. I will see to it that he is not unkind to you."

The Knight nodded nervously. He was a new one, she realized. If he wasn't, he'd know that Jon was not someone to not be unkind to someone in these matters.

Her feet hurried. Sansa felt her heart bursting at the exhilaration. She prayed to her Gods, and her father's Gods, that she might not bear sight to the scene she so dreaded. But the Gods had never listened to Sansa Stark. Not as a girl, and now, not even as a woman.

Her eyes caught a dark mop of hair from afar, and she slowed her steps, ambling through the snow. Sansa hid behind a tree trunk, and tried to see what her siblings were up to.

Her hand flew to her mouth in horror when she saw her sister, sitting and leaning against a tree. Her legs were spread and bent, and there he was- the man she had spent the last hour of her day searching for, running around like a mad fool- with his head between her sister's thighs. Sansa felt her tears pour forth and her mind numb with the pain. A sob violently wrecked her body as she saw Arya arch her back and pulling Jon's hair, while the man lapped up at her centre hungrily. There were lovers' moans spilling from their lips, and their hands were joined on the ground. More than jealous, Sansa felt betrayed.

She felt rage envelop her as she abruptly went out of her hiding. Arya turned, her eyes instantly catching Sansa's, but when she opened her mouth, only a loud moan spilled from her lips. Jon looked at her too now, and the two stood up brushing away the snow from their robes, calming their passionate breaths.

Sansa reached them in a flash, and ignoring Jon's irritated look, raised her hand to slap her sister across her cheek.

"Sansa," Jon growled, and his hand went to his sword. Sansa defiantly refused to leave her place, even as fear made her skin tingle. Arya laid a hand on Jon's, and Sansa saw that even her touch was not calming him down.

"Would you give us a minute, Jon?" Arya asked, in a voice that betrayed nothing- that her brother had just been eating her cunt and that her sister had hit her. It made Sansa even more angry.

"Lay a hand on her again, and you'll regret it, Lady Stark," Jon warned her, and quietly walked away.

When he left, she turned to her sister in rage. She was pressing her cheek which was now red and had the marks of Sansa's fingers on it.

"You told me you had nothing to do with it!" Sansa pushed Arya in the shoulder until she stumbled back on her feet. Her sister said nothing.

"First it was Father, now it is him!" Arya's silence only made her more angry. "Why can't you leave me be?! Did you have to take all of his love too just like you did Father's?! You can have any man in Westeros and you take Jon! He was supposed to be mine, Arya!"

Sansa caught her breath. Her cheeks were filled with tears, and she knew she didn't look half as ladylike then, with her stupid dress creased from her fisting it in her palm.

"You do not want him," Arya said finally, looking Sansa in the eyes. She opened her mouth but Arya beat her to it.

"You want to be the Queen, Sansa, not his Queen. I love you, I really do. You're the last of my blood, but I will not have Jon surrounded by vultures who are after his throne, not even you."

"So this is what it is then? You are with him because you think others are unworthy of him?" Sansa smiled cruelly, pretending it would give her some peace of mind to know that Arya didn't love him, and was only doing it out of duty.

Arya smiled, knowingly, like she pitied Sansa. She felt the last tear slide down her cheek. She wanted to love her sister, she really did.

Sansa left her, without waiting for an answer.

Her dreams of becoming a Queen were crushed, and that too by Arya Horseface, the girl who was less pretty and untamed and almost an animal. Mother had prepared Sansa for this, not her. She was meant to wed some lowly Lord and spend the rest of her days in an old broken castle, that is if the lowly Lord would have had her.

Be his equal.

No, she wasn't an equal, or superior. She had been reduced. Then, she had a King to answer to, and now she will have the King's sister too.