Eloquent pros, beautifully worded flowing verse, Sansa imagined it all as she tapped her pen for the thousandth time against her still blank notepad.
She had been attempting for hours to capture the beauty of Winterfell in her writing, escaping her surroundings, entrapping herself in the words that refused to find their way to the paper.
She recanted all of the memories of snow covered hills and the colors of the weirwood trees, the sounds of Old Nan's impersonations painting a vivid picture of her beloved knights and princesses. She had become so lost in her thoughts, she could practically taste her mother's lemon cakes. She could smell the crisp winter air and feel the snow blanketing at her feet. And yet still, the page was void of any quixotic wonder.
Sansa allowed herself to refocus on her current surroundings which were quite the opposite of where she truly wished to be. She longed for the Christmas snow and to see her father rustling the charred logs in the great hearth at her true home in Winterfell.
Instead she was in King's Landing where snow was a sign of the apocalypse, all alone, with no siblings to rival against. Although she would never voice her honest feelings regarding Arya, she wanted more than anything to hug her sister tightly and tell her she loved her.
"A penny for your thoughts?"
Jumping out of her skin and holding her notepad against her chest, Sansa raised her head and gazed into the gentlest eyes she had ever seen. Eyes as soft as silk matching the velvet voice of the shining angel in front of her. The brunette girl radiated light and warmth and suddenly Sansa felt as if her subconscious encircled her vision of Winterfell around them. The gray tones ensnaring Sansa's senses, captivating her previously blocked mind.
Sansa smiled as she began to write, "Don't move."
The girl merely watched her, a smirk dancing on her lips. She paid careful attention to the way Sansa's delicate hands drifted across the paper as if she were sketching a picture rather than creating one with each stanza.
The earth seemed to cease turning, watching Sansa and her gift from the gods become the only presence in existence. It was as if the grassy lawn underneath the willow tree where Sansa leisurely scribbled her jumbled thoughts was frozen in time, holding still, patiently waiting for the work Sansa's muse had inspired.
Sansa beamed, lifting her head to meet the girl's eyes once more, "Thank you.. I'm sorry." she laughed realizing her behavior was rather outside the norm, "What is your name?"
"Margaery. And no thanks needed, sweetling. I must say, and do excuse me for being.. forward, but you are even more beautiful than I imagined, Sansa Stark."
Sansa paused, her cheeks flushing rosily at Margaery's flattery, "How did you..? You imagined... me?"
Margaery floated to Sansa's side, sitting gracefully before recovering a large charcoal sketch from her portfolio, "You must know as an artist that inspiration can be found at even the darkest of times, especially on our dreariest days."
Sansa had always appreciated art, but had never seen a piece that instantly revealed the message of the artist until this moment. She felt Margaery's indistinguishable despair, and her heart ached to know the other girl had ever felt such loneliness, such sadness, such undeniable self-contempt. Each hard shadow cast against the faceless, slouched figure left aligned in the drawing jolted through Sansa's very soul like lightning had struck the tree at her back.
Retrieving another juxtaposed sketch Margaery continued, "A name, your name, gave me the lightness that I was so desperate to find." The figure right aligned, the soft streaks like rays from the sun cast against the high held head of a long haired woman with angel kissed freckles across her cheeks.
Margaery fixed her eyes slightly in Sansa's direction admiring the glow and the mirrored ghost of a smile playing on Sansa's lips, priding herself on getting the expression just right.
"How did you find me? Why my name? And how did you know.." Sansa inquired in a whisper, stopping herself from asking the next question, the one she already knew how to answer. Because Margaery's mere presence had inspired Sansa's own artistic divulgence. She knew without doubt and from experience that creative was a world entirely one's own where a name alone could create a replica of even an unknown subject.
"You were supposed to be in my art appreciation class this semester. Unfortunately for me, and luckily for you I am assuming, it seems your creative writing class found an empty spot. It took some small amounts of bribery, black mail, unadulterated flirting, and coercing, but I have found you, my beautiful perfect muse." Margaery gently rested her hand atop Sansa's, tracing small circles against her soft skin, "I suppose I should also thank the old gods that you are still here during winter break."
"I suppose I should too."