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Sansa is breathless by the time she catches up with the Lady Margaery. She is sure she looks a sight; hair ripped out of its careful curls by the wind, dress mud-stained, boots absolutely ghastly. Her companion, if anything, is a bit worse off. That dress will undoubtedly have to be discarded, spots of mud dot her skin like freckles, and there are leaves dusting her hair like a crown. Still, Margaery manages to be devastatingly pretty, with her red cheeks and bouncing curls and her fine, dirt-smudged profile. The Rose of Highgarden collapses in a whirl of skirts on the riverbank, laughter bubbling from her throat, and pulls Sansa down with her.
“Oh, but I feel like a child again,” she gasps, hooking an arm into one of Sansa’s, and her merriment is so infectious. “I don’t think I’ve run so fast in years!”
“I don’t think I’ve run so fast… ever,” Sansa admits, and emits a guilty giggle. “If anyone were to see us…”
“Hush now, I won’t have you worrying about that.” Margaery even wags her finger a little, which makes Sansa laugh again. “I can make us presentable enough before we have to return to the Red Keep, and my brother and the Gold Cloaks won’t bother us.”
Sansa’s cheek burn at the mention of the Knight of Flowers, and even harder at the thought of what ‘making them presentable’ might entail.
“But… Ser Loras and the others are sure to be able to follow our trail… and they have the horses…”
Margaery quietens her with a finger upon her lips. In the sun, her eyes are a very light brown, almost gold.
“I didn’t say they wouldn’t be able to find us; I said they wouldn’t bother us. My brother knows me well; he knows I’ve been yearning for the natural air after all that time in the city. The natural air, and some time with my new friend. He’ll make sure we aren’t disturbed.” She rocks her body gently into Sansa’s, who can’t help a blush and another grin. The Lady Margaery does want Sansa to love her, she reflects, and part of her thinks she already does. She doesn’t think she’ll ever completely shake this mantle of fear and wariness, not while she remains in this awful city, but when she’s with Margaery, the veneer slips, just a little. It feels simple, and good. It is almost shocking, to feel this good.
Margaery is watching her, golden eyes alight.
“You have the loveliest smile. Did you know that?” Sansa feels her cheeks redden, and starts to protest — she forgets all of her lady’s graces around Margaery, it seems, even how to accept a compliment graciously — but Margaery cuts her off, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. “You do. I hope I’ll have the chance to see it more often, in the future.”
Her mind flashes, provides her with a glimpse of brilliant gardens, sunlit arches and gleaming hallways, and she nods, feeling her eyes water with happiness and sadness all at once.
“I… I hope so too.”
A dimpling smile is her reward. Margaery offers her a handkerchief to blot away her unshed tears, and doesn’t shame her by mentioning them, simply rests a gentle hand on her back. They don’t speak of their plans often, but the simple knowledge that they exist is a buoy to Sansa.
“Now,” Margaery says when Sansa returns the slip of cloth, “could you be so kind as to help me with my dress? I’m a bit useless at this, I’m afraid.”
Sansa blinks. The blush that had been dying down in her cheeks jumps back up again as Margaery gathers all of her chestnut curls into her hands, and offers Sansa her back.
“Your dress…?”
“Yes, just the clasps, please. I think I might die if I don’t get out of it.”
All of Sansa’s protests disappear in the air at the sweet look Margaery gives her. She finds herself fumbling with the back clasps to Margaery’s lilac dress, the material feeling as smooth as silk beneath her fingers. When she undoes the last one, Margaery smiles her thanks and floats gracefully to her feet. Sansa’s cheeks get redder and hotter as the dress tumbles to the ground, followed by article after article of Margaery’s smallclothes. The skin of her arms and back is dotted with sweat, and looks porcelain smooth. Sansa looks away before she sees too much.
“Lady Margaery,” she has to murmur, not sounding as scandalised as she knows she should, “what about—?”
There’s a last rustle of cloth, slipping to the ground with a finality that tells Sansa that the future queen of Westeros now stands unclothed just a few feet away from her.
“Margaery, remember?” she scolds gently. Sansa turns to apologise, catches a glimpse of a bare white breast, and whips back around, colour darkening her cheeks further. “And worry not, I’ll only be a few minutes. The trees will be my cover, and if our guards are about, they won’t have time to see a thing.”
Sansa looks at her hands, to keep herself from looking elsewhere. Margaery has a way of speaking that makes it seem as if she’s seen the future, and judged it not fit for worry or care. A sense of surety cushions her every move, something that Sansa wishes she could emulate.
“I’m… I’m just not sure it’s a good idea.”
She hears the sounds of Margaery padding over to her, but doesn’t look, not once; not when her hair is brushed back, not when she feels a breast nudging her shoulder, not when the little queen kisses her cheek. Her breath does quicken, though, so fast she thinks she might be able to stir the trees like the wind, and she thinks she sees Margaery smile, just a little, over her shoulder.
“Three minutes, just the quickest of dips, I promise. I’m such a state, I don’t think I’ll feel right without a bit of a wash. Besides… I have you here, looking out for me.”
She kisses Sansa’s cheek again, and then she’s gone, moving with light steps over the fallen leaves towards the gurgling river. As much as Sansa tries to be the master of her eyes, she finds her gaze following the footsteps into the water. Margaery stands waist-deep in it, eyes closed and looking as fair and beautiful as a summer song. It seems, all of a sudden, very hard to breathe.
Sansa tears her eyes away once again, and tries to focus, for the first time, on their surroundings. Their impromptu race has led them to a quiet nook of the Kingswood, where the leaves of the trees are thick and dark, but the tiny copse allows for a space in the canopy, and the afternoon sunlight pours in. The river is a small one, and its rush is like music that echoes in the air.
Margaery is true to her word; she seems to be making a quick affair of her wash. Sansa doesn’t even realise that she’s looking until she catches herself wondering if she envies or is fascinated by the swell of the other girl’s bosom, the pertness of the tips, the smattering of freckles across her chest, her smooth white limbs. It’s as if another person, another girl is having these thoughts, while Sansa looks on from the outside. She tells herself that she should feel unnatural, ashamed, but there is a certain lightness to her limbs that prohibits grounding, and Margaery is very beautiful.
Even more so when she rises from the river, hair knotted above her head to keep it clear of the damp, water rushing down her chest, over her belly, through her secret thatch of golden-brown curls. The splatters of mud on her legs and arms and the smudges of dirt on her face have been washed away, leaving clean skin behind. Sansa knows that she is staring, and ladies should not stare, but her eyes are not her own. They are Margaery’s, and Margaery seems to relish in the having.
“See?” she says, smiling a smile that is wonderfully true. “Wasn’t I as quick as a fish?”
“But much prettier,” Sansa returns, and then flushes at her own boldness. The pleased laugh that she receives in return is all worth it.
It almost hurts, to be so much in the scope of Margaery’s kindness, of her gentle smiles, of her bare, unabashed beauty. Sansa rises unsteadily to her feet, and makes for the river while Margaery spreads a thin shawl on the largest patch of sunlight, and lays right there to dry like a maiden from a picture or a song. Although… there isn’t a song that could quite capture Margaery, Sansa thinks as she washes her face and hands, and checks her reflection in the unsteady flow. Not one that has been written yet, to be sure. To be the bard of such an epic would be certain joy.
She makes her way over, once she deems herself decent once again. Margaery still lays there on her back, bare and carefree, ready to drift into sleep by the looks of it, and Sansa throws a quick eye to the treeline. If the Gold Cloaks have already caught up with them, they hide themselves well. Margaery may not care very much for modesty, but Sansa sits so that she shields the future queen’s body with her own, and tries not to block out the light.
Her hand drops, through no particular design, near Margaery’s; Sansa watches how similar their palms and fingers are, slim and fair. The differences between them become more apparent the further up Margaery’s arm she goes, until she is looking at freckled shoulders, rounder breasts, darker nipples. They are the same dark pink as her lips, slightly parted, a soft as a cloud. Sansa’s mouth still tingles in the spot where Margaery placed her finger only a short while earlier. A press of lips is such an intimate gesture; she wonders if she dares do the same.
Heart thumping like a wild thing, she does even more. Before she can convince herself that she should not, Sansa darts down, hand to breast, and presses her mouth to Margaery’s. The pressure is light, so feather-like she’s not quite sure she’s actually doing it, and would doubt herself even more if not for the tremors cavorting along her spine. Margaery’s lips are sweet-tasting, like the honeyed bread and wine they’d lunched on, and the spirits go to Sansa’s head all over again.
Songs should be sung about this, she thinks wonderingly, sinking into the thrill.
Sansa is so taken, so swept away, that when a hand grasps her wrist she only thinks to grip back, fingers fumbling to form a clasp. Then, she realises what it means. She opens her eyes, and finds then staring into a sea of gold-flecked brown.
“I’m… I’m sorry!” she gasps, lurching away. Heat blooms in her cheeks once more, burning hard alongside the shame and the panic. I kissed her, she thinks in despair. I kissed her, the way no lady should, and now we shall never be friends. “I shouldn’t have… I don’t know what…”
The fingers curled around her wrist tighten, and Sansa’s words shrivel in her throat. Margaery is looking at her with those piercing eyes, naked and flushed, and she looks so incredibly fond.
“Please don’t apologise,” she says gently, voice barely above a whisper. Her chest rises and falls steadily, a direct contrast to Sansa’s racing heartbeat. A smiles plays on her lips, like a melody of warmth. “I was hoping that you would.”
A hand coaxes her back down. Sansa goes, marvelling at the descent, hardly daring to hope, but needing to. This time, the kiss moves, breathes, dances like a living thing over Sansa’s nerves, so light and wonderful that she almost has to believe that her mind is deceiving her. Her arms brush against soft breasts and peaked nipples, and even as she blushes, she can’t pull away. Margaery cups her face in her hands, and it’s like a dream she once had, only a thousand times better.
“Would you like to lay here a while?” Margaery asks in a soft voice, leaning back. Her lips are damp and red, and Sansa stares, without words.
Not waiting for a response, Margaery smiles, and pulls her down. Sansa finds that she doesn’t think of her dress, or her hair, or what anyone would say; she follows willingly, full of wonder, and curls into Margaery’s side. She is very warm, so much that Sansa almost hesitates to touch her, but Margaery places one of Sansa’s hands on her hip, and hums a sweet tune.
I would sing a thousand more for her, Sansa thinks drowsily, looking at her small hand on the curve of Margaery’s hip. The river rushes deep, and Sansa sleeps.
~~~
When she awakens, there are two Tyrells standing above her, both fully dressed and smiling. Sansa sits up straight immediately, and tries to rub the sleep from her eyes and pinch colour into her cheeks covertly. The afternoon sun still shines hard; she cannot have been resting for long.
It is Ser Loras who offers Sansa a hand to help her to her feet, but it is towards Margaery that she looks. She wears her brother’s white cloak over the ruin of her dress, and looks beautifully refreshed. One of her hands reaches out for Sansa’s, and she takes it immediately, like a secret. Her lips tingle still.
They wave away her apologies, and there is another cloak to drape around Sansa’s shoulders, and cover the tattered hem of her dress. Ser Loras points the way; they only have a short while to go before they come to the horses and the rest of the guard, he assures them.
“A song to cheer the way while we walk, brother?” Margaery suggests. She has not let go of Sansa’s hand.
The knight’s smile is exasperated, but fond.
“You ask me to shame myself before Lady Sansa, sweet sister; you know well I have no gift for the songs.”
“Unless you happen to appear in them yourself,” Margaery teases with effortless charm. “Loras fails us, Sansa. Whatever shall we do?”
Her grin, as ever, is infectious, and in that moment, Sansa can think of no reason why she should not return it.
“I may have a song,” she says, and smiles.