Chapter Text
The television studio is white; white floor, white backdrop, white chairs and a white glossy desk Sansa sits behind to deliver her late-night reports on the day’s sporting events. The lighting is incredible. Jeyne, her makeup artist, says her skin has never looked more flawless onscreen. The light, the white studio make whatever patriotic jewel toned fashion Sansa dons for the day stand out. Tonight, it’s blue. Sapphire blue velvet jacket, crisp white blouse, brighter electric blue skirt, and towering heels that click—click-click-click-click—as her producer and little sister trail after her, bickering.
“It’s going to be Sansa this time.”
“Sansa does fluff pieces,” her sister says, not for the first time, since Tyrion announced this interview would be hers.
Without comment, she’s let them hash it out, chasing her down the hallway towards the studio. But she needs some quiet to gather herself before going on air, so it's time to shut this all down as gracefully as possible.
“Arya can have it,” Sansa says, her ponytail swaying against her back, as she twists to look at them—Tyrion in his suit, Arya in her hoodie and Vans.
Sansa doesn’t always hand things over to her sister so willingly, especially a sought after interview. They’re a team, but they’re also siblings and that natural competition doesn’t just disappear. But Arya’s right: in the sisterly broadcasting duo that is Sansa and Arya Stark, Sansa has always done the fluff pieces or skating, before graduating to desk work, while Arya is more X Games and hands-on. Arya eagerly learns every detail of the sport she’s assigned to, which makes for well-informed interviews and a sympathetic viewpoint, her being an athlete herself. And ultimately, she has an easy way with the athletes, who are happy to be interviewed by her. Sansa has a feeling she’ll need it with this one.
Tyrion wants Sansa to interview a Team USA biathlon athlete that’s blown up, a surprising superstar of the games. Based on his quick interview on the track, she doesn’t think his surly attitude will make for a pleasant interview. If anything, he’ll connect better with Arya, which is fine. When they look good as a team, it means good things for all of them. Let Arya shine. Let her deal with him.
“This is huge,” Arya says, running her hands down her face in obvious agony from being kept from this random biathlon athlete. “The first medal for the U.S. in biathlon. It was the only winter sport we’d ever not medaled in. It’s been talked about for years.”
“What will you Yanks talk about now?” Tyrion mocks.
He's not wrong. There is some sublime associated with sport and the Olympics, but there is some ridiculous too. Sansa smiles to herself, looking down to step up onto the platform on which the desk sits.
“He wasn’t even on anyone’s radar,” her sister practically shrieks, ignoring their producer’s jab, as Sansa weaves around the back of the desk. “No one medals in their first Olympics in biathlon.” Arya stops to lean on the desk, hands wide, scowling, while Sansa lowers herself neatly into her chair. Her sister’s glare is meant for her. “Do you even know what they do in biathlon?”
Sansa is not the bad guy here. But Arya usually is ready to blur those lines.
She hooks a brow at her sneering sister. “Shoot. Ski. Repeat. Or is it ski, shoot, repeat?”
Her sister growls.
“I'm sorry, is there more to it?”
Tyrion chuckles. “That's it in a nutshell.”
There’s a stack of papers on the desk, things she needs to read through before they go on air. On top is the ominous sheet for Jon Snow, gold medalist in the men’s biathlon relay. She pretends not to have seen it, her tone disinterested, when she says, “He didn’t even do it on his own. It was a relay, correct?”
“God, Sans! He was the anchor! He went clean. He chased down three skiers. It was the most exciting moment in biathlon history.”
She opens her eyes wide. Rolling them would be unprofessional and she prides herself on maintaining her professionalism even when her team indulges in antics. “Goodness. I said you can have it.”
Tyrion crosses his arms over his chest. “No, sorry, I still call the shots, I’m afraid, and I’ve selected you, princess. You have an hour to prep the interview.”
“Why?” Arya demands, nostrils flared. “I deserve an explanation. This would absolutely be mine normally.”
“Okay,” Tyrion says, “Let’s test your media savvy. Why is Jon Snow a big star?”
Arya looks at him like he’s stupid. “Because of his grit, because he made history, because—”
“I’ll stop you there,” Tyrion says, raising his finger. “Those things are all very inspiring and will make for a stirring medal ceremony, I’m sure, but he’s blown up on the internet, because you ladies want to fuck him.”
Arya groans. “Stop.”
“You absolutely can’t talk like that,” Sansa says, flattening her hands on her papers.
“I’ve always talked like that.”
“Yes, but you can’t anymore. You’ll be sued. You should be.”
“I can show you the tweets,” he offers, reaching for his phone in his back pocket. “Some of them are quite clever.”
“Please don't,” Sansa says.
“Bored housewives go nuts on Twitter and Sansa gets the interview?” Arya says, pulling her hood up over her head. She looks like some character out of Star Wars when she does this. “He isn’t that hot.”
“No?” Tyrion says, flipping around his phone to face them.
Sansa resolutely looks down at her splayed hands, refusing to indulge him. He’s taking too much pleasure in this.
Arya points at the screen. “Too pretty. Not, you know—”
Sansa swivels in her chair, blinking at her sister. “No, Arya, what does this poor man lack in the looks department according to your assessment?”
“He could use fifty pounds.”
Sansa is tempted to grab the phone from Tyrion to see this emaciated skier Arya has turned her nose up at, but she’s kept herself above it all so far, so she gathers up her papers instead, keeping herself busy. “I'm honestly shocked at you, Arya. We shouldn’t be talking like this. About any athlete. Tyrion, you started this.”
“Like they haven't been sexualizing the women athletes forever?” Arya says.
“It's practically an act of feminism,” Tyrion says with another grin. “But hear me out. I’m not suggesting you fuck him. You and I both know you’d rather chew glass than sleep with one of these apes, but I am suggesting that we could use a certain kind of dynamic in this interview.”
“What dynamic is that?” Sansa asks with a pinched kind of distaste pursing her mouth.
“I’m not girly enough,” Ayra demands. “That’s what you’re saying.”
Tyrion peers down at the phone. “We just want to generate a little heat. Some sizzle. You’d look like his little sister sitting there next to him, and you’re too buddy-buddy with them. It wouldn’t do for what I have in mind.”
“Buddy-buddy my ass. People like my interviews. They get gifed. No one gifs Sansa.”
She feels as if she should resent that, but she’d be mortified to see herself in gif form on every social media platform.
Tyrion tucks his phone back away. “Well, not this time, meme queen. It’s Sansa this time. I’m sure you can grab a signature after.”
“Fuck this.” Arya pushes away from the desk. “I’ve got the halfpipe to get ready for.”
Tyrion grins. “Throw yourself into it. You’re those stoners’ little media darling.”
“Fuck you,” she shouts back.
Sansa waits in silence, her shoulders stiff and breath caught in her chest, as Arya’s sneakers slap, stomping from the studio.
Her eyes dart to the digital clock on the back wall. They’re alone. But not for long. An hour will fly by, as the studio comes alive with crew.
Sansa taps her red nail against the desk surface. She doesn't want to fake heat onscreen for Tyrion or the national viewing audience.
“Sansa?”
She lowers her voice. “You want me to flirt with him?”
“No, no, wouldn’t dream of it. Just be your usual lovely self. Someone the ladies at home can project onto.”
She lifts her brows, giving him a sidelong glance. “Flirt a little,” she says, grabbing up the papers and pressing them to her chest.
When she started out in sports, she had a different producer. Petyr Baelish was fond of telling her to use her best assets to get the players' attention.
“Flirt a little,” he concedes. “If you like.”
“I won’t. Like it.”
He pulls a face. “Hold your nose and do your best, and if we have to cut to a little sob story package, we will.”
“Hold your nose. That's a metaphor.”
“What else?”
“I know you haven't forgotten those unwashed hockey players.”
“No, I wouldn’t think he'd suffer from that affliction.” He grabs his chin, clearly uncertain. “There’s no gear to speak of. Those pads are vile, admittedly. But if he does have an odor, we’ll turn the heat down further here in the studio, get the fans going.”
He winks.
It's already too damn cold in here.
Sansa wishes she could indulge in a good growl too.
She smooths her skirt out, hands following the path of her legs tucked under the lip of the desk. “I want the women’s gold medal interview for figure skating.”
Tyrion's head bobs side to side, as if he's weighing something. “We’ll see. You know how cutthroat that gets and I always throw your name in with the suits, but—”
“No, I want it. Put that in your phone.”