Chapter Text
Sansa wasn’t hungry.
She had zero desire to eat, and even less appetite for the strained excuse for polite conversation the women beside her were bandying back and forth over the dinner table, smiles belonging to words that they most definitely weren’t saying. The tension in the room was so thick that Sansa could taste it.
Cersei Lannister, that fearful, beautiful Queen, presided over their table. Margaery Tyrell preened at her right, while Sansa shrank in her chair at the Queen's left.
Dutiful to a fault, Sansa had not said so much as two words since she’d been shown into the Queen’s chambers, murmuring a respectful greeting as she came in. Doing as she was bid, she’d taken her place at the royal table with the same feeling of paralyzed obligation that had washed over her upon receiving the Queen’s summons to dinner that morning.
“My grandmother and I have been discussing the wedding, and we hope to fully involve the city smallfolk in the celebration,” Margaery Tyrell was saying. She leaned toward the Queen, dress shimmering gold and green in the flickering candlelight. She was a sweet, blossoming thing; looking at her, Sansa felt as old as stone. “During the procession through the city streets, we’d like to throw flowers and have been thinking of roses, of course, as well as chrysanthemums for fidelity, gladiolus for luck...”
She had been diminished, reduced to a mote of dust in Margaery’s shadow. She is the one that you want, Sansa thought towards the Queen, fiercely willing herself invisible. Feast on her, my replacement, and let me be. The page had been turned on her own story, and all Sansa wanted was to be forgotten. Yet she’d been called here for some unknown reason, to bear witness to this exchange between queen and queen-to-be.
“Oh yes,” Cersei Lannister said, a single muscle pulsing in her jaw. She looked toward Sansa. “Don’t you think that sounds lovely, Sansa? Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Yes, your Grace,” Sansa murmured, lowering her head in feigned demureness. Really, her stomach twisted like a knife, and she couldn’t stand to meet the Queen’s raking eyes. Across the table, Margaery Tyrell beamed at Sansa with a smile spread as thick as honey, as if Sansa’s response meant all the world to her.
This is ridiculous, Sansa thought with a sharp, sick, indignant thrill. They act as if I had anything to contribute, as if I were their equal. As if I were important.
Trying to avoid further attention, Sansa reached for her glass, reflecting on the tiny drama playing out before her. Here was Cersei, fingers tightly gripping the clawed hand rest of her chair—but why was she so angry? She, after all, had been the one who’d summoned Sansa and Margaery to dine.
Then again, the Queen had been unfathomable to Sansa since she’d stopped playing the sweet mother-to-be. When Sansa had first met the Queen at Winterfell a thousand years ago, when the Queen’s dead husband had come to make Sansa’s dead father Hand, Cersei had seemed gentle and fair. She remained beautiful, that was true. But behind that hard, lovely exterior was a woman whose love reached only to her own children. Sansa had come to dread the Queen even more since the betrothal to Joffrey had been broken; before, at least, she’d known what Cersei ultimately intended for her. Now... well. The Queen had taken to looking at Sansa as if she were something fragile just waiting to be broken, and spoke to her with in a way that alternated between cosseting, pity, and bare scorn. Her presence made Sansa almost unbearably nervous.
And here, across the table, was another confusing puzzle of a woman. Sansa had only known Margaery a matter of days, but it was already clear that the Tyrell girl was perceptive, sharp, and capable of a poignant kindness that showed itself like shards of shimmering glass. The girl and her family, while perfectly genteel to the rest of the court, had been notably warm to Sansa. But rather than providing comfort, Margaery’s sweet disposition only increased Sansa’s anxiety: she wouldn’t wish her former betrothed on anyone, especially not a girl who seemed so kind.
She'd even risked everything and told Margaery and her grandmother the violent, horrible truth about Joffrey—but Margaery and her family were still going forward with the wedding. Sansa couldn’t understand it.
“Little dove, your appetite is that of a bird this evening. Does my table not agree with you?”
Cersei’s voice startled Sansa out of her thoughts. “I-It does, your Grace.” Sansa swallowed. “I’m only feeling a bit... indisposed. I will gladly partake, if it please you.” She forced herself to look at the Queen.
The Queen’s sharp green eyes regarded Sansa for a moment. “No. We have dined long enough, I think. Let us retire to the balcony.”
Margaery Tyrell leaned in warmly. “An excellent idea, your Grace.” Cersei eyed her sharply and then rose to her feet, scarlet skirts falling gracefully to the floor. The girls trailed her into the next room, which was softly illuminated by dozens of candlelit sconces.
Cersei Lannister's bedchamber, Sansa thought, was as exquisite as that of any storybook queen. A beautiful four-poster bed dominated the center of the room on a dais, its embroidered cloth-of-gold bedding complementing the tapestry of Lannister colors that covered the wall behind. The lush Myrish rug carpeting the floor ran right up to the short stone balcony, where doors opened high over the castle gardens to display the inky sky night alight with thousands of stars. King’s Landing felt beautiful tonight, the summer night air was balmy, and the pretty scene was almost enough to allay the nerves that jangled in Sansa's chest. Almost.
Cersei motioned for them to sit, nodding at the low carved stools just inside the room. She moved to the sideboard to unstop a decanter of wine, then surprised Sansa by turning to press a filled glass into Sansa's hands. “Here, little dove. Perhaps this will cure what ails you.” Her tone was pointed, but much softer than what Sansa had become accustomed to, from her. The Queen’s eyes were probing as she pulled away.
“Th-thank you, your Grace.” Gods, there had been a time when Sansa had prided herself on being well-spoken. She flushed.
Margaery turned to the Queen, still smiling. “The smell of the flowers is so divine, Your Grace. It reminds me of Highgarden.”
“King’s Landing is a city of many charms, Margaery.” Cersei continued to occupy herself at the sideboard. “What do you think, little dove?” she said abruptly to Sansa, who'd just been thinking she’d be hard pressed to name a single one of the city’s charms. She blinked and the Queen said sharply, “The wine.”
Oh. She took a sip. “It’s very good, Your Grace.” Sansa was being truthful. The wine was indeed very good; perhaps that was why the Queen was always in her cups.
Cersei laughed, looking genuinely amused for the first time that evening. “So you prefer drink to food. A girl after my own heart.”
Margaery followed this little exchange with a courtier’s smile. “King’s Landing is truly beautiful,” she remarked, folding her hands in her lap and steering the conversation back to the earlier topic. “When you were wed, Your Grace, how long was it before you felt at home here?”
“It was very little time at all. I grew comfortable in King’s Landing very quickly. Of course, I had my brother Jaime here with me, serving in the Kingsguard, and that made me feel quite... comfortable.” Cersei paused briefly, biting her full lower lip almost wryly. “But let us speak of your wedding, Margaery. If it please you, you may choose Joffrey’s bridal flower from the castle gardens.”
“Nothing would please me more,” Margaery agreed, all sweetness, and turned her head to Sansa. “Perhaps Lady Sansa could aid in my decision.” Surprised to be acknowledged, Sansa murmured some vague noises of assent, though she privately thought the only flower Joffrey deserved was deadly nightshade or the like.
Cersei sank into a low chair on the stone balcony, stretching in her seat. “Well. As Joffrey’s queen, Margaery, you will have many duties to complete. Namely, you must give him heirs.”
Sansa could see Margaery nodding in prim understanding out of the corner of her eye. Cersei’s elegant fingers tapped at the stem of her goblet as she regarded Margaery over its rim. “My Joffrey is young still, yet becoming a man. To give him heirs, you must know what to do.” Cersei paused, her lips curling. “What do you know of fucking?”
Sansa couldn’t hold back her sharp inhale of shock, or stop the blush of heat that suffused her body instantly. Next to her Margaery sat unnaturally still, both eyes trained on the Queen. “What do you mean, Your Grace?” the Tyrell girl said, very coolly.
“I mean fucking.” Cersei could very well have been saying ‘dancing’ or ‘talking’ in that cavalier tone of voice, but for that unmistakable hint of wicked amusement—enjoyment, even—in her eyes. “What do you know of it, my lady of Highgarden?”
There was a long, weighted pause. Margaery’s voice, when it came, was as light as Cersei’s but steely underneath. “I am a maiden, Your Grace. To be any other, as the betrothed of King Joffrey, would be... unthinkable.” As well you know, her tone added.
Sansa’s face burned. Was this was why the Queen had called an audience with two young women she so obviously despised? She glanced at Margaery, who remained gazing stoically at the Queen.
Cersei laughed suddenly, brightly. “Margaery, my sweet, I’m casting no aspersions on your maidenhead. Gods! I’m simply asking what you know of... well, fucking. Lovemaking, if your tender sensibilities prefer. The art of how a queen may please her king.” She gave a brilliant, rigid smile. “It is important that you know these things to make heirs. Joffrey may need you to be experienced.”
Margaery released her breath with a noise that sounded like it might have been the prelude to laughter, but she did not laugh. “I see, your Grace.” Her blue eyes narrowed for a second before widening innocuously. “Why, I know as little as any maiden would.”
“So you will need instruction.” Cersei leaned forward, her loose golden hair gleaming in the candlelight. “Don’t be ashamed, Margaery. I wouldn’t want my son marrying some whore.” She smiled broadly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You’ll learn from me. I will teach you how to fuck like a queen.”
Sansa gaped at her, thunderstruck. She couldn’t help it. It was the combination of the obscene word she’d only ever heard used by stable hands (and Theon Greyjoy, once, when he didn’t know she was listening), and the frank discussion of what constituted heir-making. Sansa had never heard ladies speak of such things. But then again… who was she to know? Perhaps this was part of the marriage contract. Maybe, if she were still betrothed to Joffrey, Cersei would be inquiring about her lovemaking (fucking?) expertise right now. The thought was enough to make Sansa squirm with embarrassment, adding to the color already high in her cheeks.
Cersei reached to refill their cups and Margaery sipped her wine placidly. Her expression was perfectly calm, rosebud mouth turned up at the corners, and she kept her eyes on the Queen. Cersei drank, cleared her throat, and smirked. Her gaze swung from Margaery to Sansa, and then back to Margaery. “So. Fucking—or would you prefer if I said lovemaking?”
“Your word will suit,” said Margaery levelly. “Your Grace.”
The Queen smiled. “Fucking,” she said, “should not be all about the man’s pleasure. The woman’s pleasure is also important. If you know how to please yourself, you will have a much better chance of pleasing the man.” Cersei’s mouth twisted slightly, until her smile looked almost ugly. “Men think they have all the control, but in the bedchamber... it’s all in our hands. All men fancy themselves great lovers but, you know, they have such fragile egos. We can build them up or destroy them merely by expressing displeasure with their performance. Besides, it’s up to us to give them heirs. A man may spill his seed wherever he can stick his cock, but it takes a woman’s body, a woman’s choice, to bear a child.”
Margaery’s eyes sized up the Queen. “What are you saying, Your Grace?”
Cersei spoke deliberately. “Men control everything in this world. And so, in every other aspect of this world, we need them. But not in the bedchamber. There, they need us—to make heirs, to give them their pleasure—but we don’t need them. We can use them for our own pleasure, but we do not need them to achieve it. Only once you know that can you truly fuck like a queen.” She looked at Margaery, almost coldly. “And don’t you want to be Queen?”
Margaery’s steely reserve melted just a little. “Yes,” she said softly. "I do." Sansa could hear the edge of real desire there in the older girl’s voice, and it made her uneasy.
A hard, foreign look came over the Queen’s face then. She leaned back in her chair as though it were a throne. “Then you’ll do as you’re told,” she replied. “Kiss Sansa.”
The room lurched. Sansa thought the situation had changed, that she’d become a mere witness to this exchange between two would-be Queens, yet clearly she was wrong. Why this, she thought wildly, what does Cersei want from me? It had to be some kind of test—but why? To test Sansa’s loyalty to the crown? To prove, as she did every day with her oaths and shows of obedience, that she was not the blood traitor her Stark name automatically implied? Or was this merely the natural progression of her responsibilities as Cersei’s ward?
Her heart pulsing hot and hard in her chest, she looked to Margaery and the Tyrell girl, whose mouth had fallen into a perfect O at the Queen’s order, seemed to read the fear written on Sansa's face. “Your Grace,” Margaery interjected swiftly, her voice very smooth, “I don’t see what that has to do with making heirs.”
Cersei wore an expression of amusement laced with exasperation. “Kiss her, Margaery. A Queen should take what she wants, when she wants it.” Her tone changed abruptly, growing icy as she leaned closer. “And you do want her, don’t you, Margaery? I’ve heard the young flowers are lovely in Highgarden... and surely this northern bloom is just as fair. So go on.”
Sansa had never before seen Margaery lose her composure, but the Queen’s words had that effect. Margaery turned her face quickly away from Cersei’s gaze, mouth tightening sharply, as a high blush rose in her cheeks and a strange hesitancy washed over her face. She turned to Sansa.
As Margaery looked slowly at her, it startled Sansa to see the subtle change that unfurled over the older girl’s face, eyes tracing Sansa’s figure in its ice blue gown almost hungrily. The Queen is right, she realized with a tiny, hot shock: Margaery did want her. When Margaery’s eyes finally met her own, though, their look was questioning. Margaery was asking, Sansa saw suddenly, for her consent. She wanted to make sure this was all right.
But Sansa didn’t even know if her consent was hers to give. She turned to the Queen and saw the hard, lustful look in Cersei’s eyes—yet exactly what the Queen was lusting for was impossible to tell. She turned away quickly, heart pounding. If this was a test, and Sansa had no doubt that it was, she had no idea what was expected of her. She had only ever kissed Joffrey, and chastely. What did the Queen want here?—was she to pleasure Margaery, or Margaery her?—was this a punishment or a reward? And again, what this all had to do with heir-making was beyond her.
It struck her then that, just like everything Cersei Lannister had ever bidden her to do, this task was completely beyond her comprehension. It was thoroughly beyond Sansa to understand what went on in that blonde Lannister head. Unbidden, a laugh bubbled up in her chest, and she let out a tiny, hysterical hiccup of air before she could help it, pressing a hand over her smile half a second too late.
Relief washed over Margaery’s face like a wave. She reached for Sansa’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, and Sansa thought, between deep draws of breath, Everything will be fine. Just as Margaery had been kind to her before, so she would be now. Margaery pressed Sansa’s fingers to her lips, leaving a kiss there.
“What a gentlemanly queen you are, Margaery.” Cersei’s acid voice caused Sansa to jerk in surprise, stomach instantly knotting with nerves, and she saw Margaery’s mouth tighten again. Sansa couldn’t help but reflexively turn to look at the Queen, but Margaery put a hand under Sansa's chin and gently made Sansa look at her, blue eyes very firm. “Just look at me,” she whispered, so softly that Sansa was barely sure she’d heard it. But she obeyed. Wordlessly then, Margaery turned Sansa’s hand over, pressing a kiss to her palm. Her eyes stayed trained on Sansa’s as she left a kiss on her wrist, and another farther up Sansa's arm.
I don’t have to fear Cersei, Sansa told herself, tried to convince herself, as Margaery’s hand slipped lightly around her waist. Margaery won’t let anything happen to me, as her blue eyes grew closer, fixed on Sansa’s. Don’t think. Then Margaery’s soft lips pressed gently against her own, and the warmth of it made the world go black.
Sansa blinked her eyes open, not even realizing that she’d closed them. Margaery pulled back for a moment, looking intently into Sansa’s eyes, hands pulled away and hovering in her lap. So that’s what it feels like to do that, Sansa thought slowly, body struck through with wonder. It took everything she had not to turn to look at Cersei, a leonine golden figure in the corner of her vision. Margaery was looking at Sansa with a question in her eyes and Sansa took a deep, slow breath, letting herself think only of how she wanted to feel Margaery’s lips again. So she squeezed the other girl’s hand, hardly daring to nod yes, but that was all it took for Margaery to smile and exhale and carefully kiss her again.
She’d never felt anything like this, this goldenness flooding her body all over, not just where she and Margaery met lips. It spread, tingling, through her belly and ignited the strangest warmth in that secret place between her legs. Tentative, Sansa put her hands around Margaery’s waist, shyness and uncertainty stopping her from pressing into the older girl’s embrace the way she wanted to. Instead she reached up to gently tangle her fingers in the other girl’s soft loose curls, and sighed at the feeling, breathing out one long exhale of delicious need—and suddenly the kiss turned wet and hot, Margaery’s tongue in her mouth and hands very tight around Sansa’s waist. Margaery gently pulled Sansa’s lower lip between her teeth before kissing her again, and again, over and over, each kiss melting into the one before.
She realized she was panting, gasping into Margaery’s mouth, making low desperate sounds that were only partially swallowed up by their hot open-mouthed kisses. She wanted more, the queer ache between her legs spreading and flaring—and all of a sudden they’d kicked away their stools and were on the floor, Sansa on her back and Margaery awkwardly straddling her hips, their skirts unwieldy and everywhere. Margaery sat up for a minute with a little pant for breath, hitching up her green gown to sit astride one of Sansa’s legs, left knee pushing dangerously close to the aching juncture of Sansa’s thighs.
She’s lovely, Sansa thought suddenly, gazing up at Margaery’s heart-shaped face, so flushed and set in its look of determination. How often had Sansa daydreamed (ambiguously, to be sure) of going to bed with some handsome knight? Yet warm, beautiful Margaery, whose hand now crept under Sansa's skirt—somehow, she felt just as nice as any knight Sansa had ever imagined.
Margaery leaned down to meet her lips. Sansa sighed in wordless pleasure at their kiss, dazed by the strength of her hunger for something she’d never known she could want. But Margaery’s heated mouth was gone all too soon, and Sansa’s sharp gasp of protest cut off a split second later when she felt the other girl pressing a kiss to her throat, and another, and another. She arched her back in delight as the kisses grew wet, and sucked in her breath at the perception of teeth and pressure, Margaery sucking little bites into her skin. A flock of butterflies exploded in her stomach, fluttering madly, as the bites moved down over her collarbone and then—suddenly—Margaery was kissing the tops of her breasts, pushed up over the tight bodice of her gown and all Sansa could think was Oh, yes, and she was pushing her crotch against Margaery’s leg because she was aching so badly, so sweetly, and it was almost too much.
“Yes... yes,” she panted, stroking Margaery’s soft head, watching as Margaery’s deft fingers worked at the fastenings of her gown. The Tyrell girl looked up at Sansa and smiled, and when she had gotten the bindings loose enough Sansa herself pulled at her bodice, laying herself open. Margaery paused then, regarding Sansa with her clear blue eyes, and Sansa stared back with a dart of trepidation, chest heaving. It's all right, she thought, trembling, she's not going to hurt me, she... Not breaking their mutual gaze, her face very serious, Margaery entwined her fingers in Sansa’s and stretched Sansa’s arm high above her head onto the lush carpeted floor. The fingers of Margaery's other hand traced a lazy circle on Sansa’s breast, drawing down the top of the silk shift with agonizing slowness until Sansa’s right breast was exposed to the balmy night air. Painfully slowly, the older girl ran her thumb over Sansa’s nipple. When it hardened to her touch Margaery looked up at Sansa with something like pleased amusement in her eyes, and she didn't bother to hide her smile at the way Sansa's desperate sighs increased when she did it again, and again.
So when Margaery leaned down and Sansa felt the ferocious wet bite of Margaery’s tongue and teeth at her breast, Sansa began to thrash uncontrollably. Her world narrowed into a golden bubble, arching her neck, rolling her hips against Margaery’s leg between her thighs. She was barely conscious of the sounds she made as Margaery suckled and nipped at her, but—oh—she had never even known her body could feel this way.
And suddenly she felt, between her legs, Margaery’s hand, stroking at the place that only Sansa had ever touched. Instantly she felt herself becoming wet, and it was into this secret silky hot wet place that Margaery slid one exploratory finger. Sansa tensed instinctively, expecting pain, but there was none. She felt her inner walls tighten around Margaery, who lifted her mouth from Sansa’s breast with an involuntary groan, eyes gone nearly black with desire. She leaned up quickly and kissed Sansa’s open mouth, whispering hotly, “You sweet girl, you're so young, you—”
Not wanting to hear words, Sansa wrapped both hands in Margaery’s hair and pulled the older girl fiercely to her. She may have only just learned to kiss but she knew what she wanted, and thrilled at hearing Margaery’s helpless sounds as she ventured her own tongue into her mouth. All too soon Margaery drew back, nudged her nose against Sansa’s and kissed a burning path down Sansa’s neck, chest, moving over the tangle of unlaced corset and skirts at Sansa's waist. She pushed up Sansa’s skirts, lacing their fingers together so tightly it hurt—and when Sansa felt Margaery kiss her there, between her legs, she screamed.
In blind, frantic pleasure, she rolled her hips helplessly up into the irresistible sweetness that was Margaery’s mouth on her. With her eyes closed, the whole world was Margaery’s lapping tongue at her aching center, finger crooked wickedly inside Sansa. Margaery added another finger and Sansa pulled her closer, hands twining in brown curls, hips undulating against the wet strokes of motion, again and again and again and…
Margaery’s thumb stroked the front of her and Sansa’s back arched; wordlessly she cried out and collapsed against the floor, shuddering, spent. Margaery drew away for a moment before lowering her head to lick Sansa clean with a few long strokes of her tongue, leaving a few well-placed kisses that reduced Sansa to trembling shivers. Without releasing Sansa’s hand Margaery drew up, supporting herself on one elbow, and kissed Sansa hard. Her lovely curls were messy in disarray, but her eyes shone. Not thinking, Sansa opened her mouth and it was a moment before she realized, slightly shocked, that it was herself that she was tasting on Margaery’s tongue. She rolled onto her side and took Margaery’s head between her hands, and they kissed for a long minute. Finally, too exhausted to continue, Sansa rolled onto her back; Margaery laid her head between Sansa’s head and shoulder and her arm across Sansa’s waist, gently pinning her to the ground and they rested, breathing heavily.
There was a small sound of clapping, and Sansa's eyes flew open with a jolt. She had forgotten completely about the Queen. Too exhausted for fear or even nerves, she stayed where she was, partially nude with her clothing all in disarray. Margaery had her arm around Sansa and, besides, Sansa thought almost darkly, after what Cersei Lannister has just seen, there is no way she can claim dissatisfaction.
“Well done, my young Queen-to-be,” Cersei approved, settling back in her chair. She looked satisfied, in her way. Margaery slowly sat up, smoothing her dress. “And how was that?”
“It was... well, Your Grace,” murmured Margaery, so demure now, but unable to hide the fact she was still breathless from their coupling. Sansa hastily pulled her shift up over her breasts and skirts down over her knees; she felt positively indecent as she sat up, trying to right herself. Margaery looked at her quickly, avoiding the Queen’s eyes as she turned to help Sansa lace up her gown. “It was very well.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Cersei said baldly. “Of course it is different with a man. And remember... I said nothing about fucking like a king. It’s one thing to give pleasure to a king when he wants it,” and she drained her glass, “and quite another to do anything but lie there when all he wants is a cunt to fuck, and cares not if it’s wet or dry or even attached to his own queen.” She dropped her glass to the ground. “So you see, Margaery, it’s not all fun and games and our sweet Sansa here.”
The bitterness in the Queen’s voice was heavy and hard. Sansa stared at Cersei’s face, shadowed in the candlelight. The Queen had never looked so old.
“Your Grace,” Margaery said, her head bowed.
“That’s enough from you, you little slut.” But Cersei’s words sounded hollow as she gazed off across the balcony, drawn into herself. “Sansa, fetch me another glass.”
Sansa scrambled to her feet and did as she was bid. The Queen accepted it without looking at her, and Sansa stepped back to stand alongside Margaery, waiting for their dismissal. Sansa’s nervousness had returned, coiling in her stomach like a snake, but she knew that reprieve was imminent.
And finally Cersei sighed, glaring at the two of them. “Well, you may go. I hope you’ve both learned something tonight.” She turned away and settled darkly into her chair, hands locked around her goblet.
Margaery dropped into a graceful curtsy. “Yes, Your Grace.” Monumentally relieved and still dizzy with release, Sansa did the same, and as they turned away Margaery caught Sansa’s eye with a dazed, wide-eyed smile. They left the Queen alone behind them.
Outside the Queen’s chambers, the Tyrell girl wheeled around to face Sansa, mouth falling open in delighted shock as if they had just gotten away with something very daring indeed. She grabbed Sansa’s hands and spun her about, laughing gaily, her tone touched with the hysterical recklessness that Sansa felt herself. Sansa laughed too. If she didn’t, she feared she might burst into the worst kind of tears, the kind where you couldn’t tell which emotion was causing you to well up, only that it was entirely overwhelming.
Margaery pulled Sansa close as she swung near. “Come to my chambers, spend the night with me?” Sansa heard her say, eyes all fiery and blue, words emanating from her lips with heat that had been stoked by their unanticipated encounter, set in motion by the Queen’s whim.
It all felt so surreal. Sansa pressed her lips together, nodding, nodding as if she were in a dream.
Through the sleeping belly of the Red Keep, they made their way to the Maidenvault. Sansa lowered her head as they swept past the Tyrell guards in their green and gold livery, standing at attention like statues, but Margaery passed them with no more than a little laugh.
They crossed a long hall and darkened antechamber that must have been the Tyrells’ receiving room, before ascending a tower. There Margaery pushed open a wide wooden door to chambers that were spacious and airy, all ivory white walls and sloping windows open to the night air.
“Here,” the older girl said breathlessly, pulling Sansa to the creamy white bed before Sansa had a chance to truly look around. Canopied like the queen’s, the bed was dressed in bolts of silk shaded from milky ivory to the palest opalescent green. Margaery pressed Sansa down into a sitting position, squeezing their hands together once before she pulled away. “Stay there,” she directed with a radiant, impatient smile, and as she crossed the room Sansa folded her hands in her lap, still dazed from their whirlwind passage through the castle—not to mention everything that had come before.
She realized, quite suddenly, that this was the first time she’d ever been alone with Margaery Tyrell.
Time passed almost blurrily, moments elapsing in time to Sansa's ragged heart. Sansa had assumed Margaery had crossed to the wall opposite to light the sconces there. But when the Tyrell girl turned, Sansa saw with a start she had unlaced the front of her jade green gown, and now stepped out of it. She wore no smallclothes, and when the diaphanous fabric of her dress pooled at her feet the older girl stepped forward completely nude, as natural as anything.
It was then, in this beautiful room with soft nocturnal light streaming in, that Sansa began to feel stabs of panic. Margaery approached in slow steps, moonlight luminous on her skin and hair flowing over her high small breasts; her heart-shaped face was anticipatory, almost glowing.
It was strange, how this girl who had just touched her so intimately remained almost a complete stranger. It’s as though she knows me from the inside out, Sansa thought faintly, but there’s only so much I can give.
Margaery stepped closer, her smile sweet and expectant, but it was all too much. When she laid a soft hand against Sansa’s arm, Sansa flinched away.
Her eyes darted up reflexively. There was a strange, cautious look on Margaery's face as she gently removed her hand, holding it against one hip. “I’m sorry, my lady,” she apologized. “Is there anything—did I—”
“I would like to go back to my chambers,” Sansa said, chest aching and constricted. She pulled her skirts to her and rose from the bed, evading Margaery as the other girl stood there, arms held uncertainly at her sides. As she moved to the door, Sansa could feel Margaery’s bewildered eyes at her back.
She paused at the entrance to the bedchamber, knowing that it was discourteous to run out but utterly lost for what she might say. Thank you, this evening has been a true... pleasure?
“Good night, Lady Margaery,” was all she could finally manage, evading Margaery's eyes completely.
And then she ran.