They’re not nice girls. But then, it’s not like they have any reason to be.
All the other crews ride with men, they’re someone’s old ladies. But they’re not like that. They’re not like that at all.
Margaery paints her mouth sticky red every morning without any need for a mirror. She’s the best off out of all the girls, maybe. Her family is lying in wait, waiting for the chance to rise to the top. For now, she’s slumming it.
Dany, who’s got hair like the brilliant white of a firework, Marilyn Monroe-blonde except it comes to her natural, has the leader of a local gang wrapped around her finger. She’s gonna call on him someday, got a whole raft of reasons for revenge: a family that’s been pretty much torched, and a fucked up brother who put his hands all over her before she even knew wrong from right. But she’s sweet as sugar, if you get her on a good day.
Other times she can get a little crazy, but they all know how to handle her when it comes to that.
Asha, lean as a greyhound, brooks no shit. Her family’s been running heavy H for a long time, and coupla years ago her brother got messed up real, real bad by some rival runners, carved him up like a Thanksgiving turkey. They say he’s not even like a whole person any more. She visits him upstate twice a month, and she sure as hell isn’t going to let that rest. She’s got debts owing, that’s for sure.
There’s Arianne, who oozes sex with the smell of her Soir de Paris and cleavage so deep you could drown in it. She’s usually the bait. She thinks women should run it all, and will give you the soft sell on women’s lib while snapping her gum. She’s the brains, really, and knows all the fancy words for what the rest of them just take to heart. But she’s more than content to blow kisses at cops and distract them entirely from what’s stashed in their saddlebags. She says she enjoys being underestimated.
They collect girls like discarded pieces of gum you find under sticky tables—girls whose lives have kicked them down, girls who have a list of people whose names they aren’t ever going to forget. There’s a lot of them in this dirty city. And girls like that, they have to stick together.
The Stark sisters are their latest find, two girls so dissimilar that you wouldn’t think they go together. Arya, so fierce she seems more animal than girl, hair scraped back like a boy’s, is all swagger in her tight dungarees and oversize leather jacket. Little, but she’s so quick with a knife that even Asha has a hard time catching her. And Sansa, schoolgirl sweet in her tight dresses and soft sweaters, except she don’t smile. Neither of them ever smile.
When you hear what happened to their daddy, old lady, and older brother, you’ll understand why the fuck they don’t waste their time with smiles.
Looking at them from the outside, people would think that Brienne, as strong as any man, so fucking handsome in her cuffed 501s and motorcycle boots, cigs rolled up in the sleeve of her clean white shirt, would be the bull dyke. But what do they know—Brienne’s got something going with the golden boy of the big family in town, pretty boy Lannister, so good-looking it hurts. (The way she tells it, laughing and blowing out plumes of smoke, he looks a sight better in a dress than she does. All very hush-hush.) And it’s Margaery and her redheaded baby who have something going.
Margaery doesn’t like to admit it, ‘cause it shows weakness. But she thinks there’s no better place to be than on her bike with her sunglasses on, bandanna folded up over her curls, her girl behind her with arms wrapped around her neck and long red hair whipping in the wind like an angel’s.
“You’re my girl,” she says hoarsely, into Sansa’s neck. “And no one is ever gonna hurt you again, baby, I swear.”
She knows all about that rat bastard, and he don’t have any idea what’s coming to him. She’s got his number, and she’s got an in. Brienne’s a doll, and she’s real sweet on her man, but she’s smart, too. And her girls always come first.
Not that Sansa needs anyone to protect her. A girl who’s a little dead behind the eyes like that, she’s got only one thing on her mind. But she’s so pretty to look at, you know, anyone just glancing at her would think she was like any bobby soxer, cotton candy for brains.
That’s the thing about being in a girl gang, especially one like theirs. You dress up right, like a nice proper lady, no one will ever see you coming.
And no one ever suspects you.
Not until it’s too late.