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Chapter Text

"I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days."

And, with a ceremony and a feast, Margaery Tyrell became Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, wife of Joffrey the Illborn.

In another life, there might have been a reckoning, for all the ill works of that wicked boy; there might have been a death at another wedding, another king felled, this one as he so justly deserved.

But there was not, this day.

Instead, Queen Margaery passed a goblet of wine to her husband, who drank from it, and she saw a missed opportunity when nothing happened, as she too drank from the goblet a moment later.

Perhaps a part of her wished that it was poisoned, despite her partaking of the same wine her new husband drank. Perhaps she didn't care at all, one way or the other.

Sansa would not know. She would never know, though she would always wonder.

It was not the sort of question proper young ladies asked queens who professed to love their husbands, after all. And, too, it was not the sort of question that Sansa believed Margaery would ever answer.

Sansa did not know how long the torturous feast continued, when false smiles turned brittle, and food that had turned stale in her mouth became rotten.

She heard the remarks that her lord husband continued to make, both under his breath and to the king's face, as the king continued to order him to refill his wine, heard even the Queen Mother bid her son that perhaps it was time to find a new passtime, lest his guests grow bored.

She heard Joffrey's laughter at that, and saw the way Margaery doted over him, letting him slip an arm around her waist and whispering amusing nothings into his ear until he forgot about tormenting his uncle and half of the guests at his wedding for a few short moments.

Sansa Stark did not realize that she was clutching her meat knife with her fist until Shae, ostensibly here to help feed so many guests, slipped it out of her grasp under the guise of pouring her some wine.

"Drink, my lady," Shae said, her voice soft and pitying, and Sansa shoved the cup away for that.

"I'm not thirsty," she snapped at her serving girl, reminding herself with a wince of the early days, when Shae had been sent to work for her, but not enough for her to apologize for the words. She was not entirely sure how she felt about Shae these days, anymore than she had been then, and so it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

She noticed the Queen Mother's eyes on her, then, cold and piercing, and struggled to hold down a flush, turning instead to the King and Queen once more.

She wasn't sure if Shae would have believed her, if she'd told the woman that she had no intention of burying the knife in Joffrey's neck, or his chest, as her brother Robb had died.

She never had the intention of following through; she hadn't since the fateful day she'd attempted to push Joffrey from the ramparts, as they stared up at what remained of her father's body. She had learned then a horrible lesson, that she would never have been able to manage such a feat.

She knew that Arya would probably call her a coward, for refusing to follow through, and perhaps she was, but she never would have lifted the knife. Not really.

It was comforting, though, to hold onto it.

"And shall we be having the bedding ceremony, Your Grace? Or are you not enough of a man to parade yourself before your subjects?" Tyrion asked, mildly, interrupting what had no doubt been another speech from Joffrey, by the looks on the Tyrells faces, about the upcoming night. Ser Loras especially looked livid, and Sansa was abruptly reminded of her warnings to Margaery, that to marry Joffrey would be a mistake, of how Margaery had laughed this off with the simple explanation that her brother would, of course, protect her.

Sansa blinked, glancing at Joffrey, aware that she had not been following the conversation.

She did that these days, sometimes. Her lord husband would often tell her over their breakfast that her eyes glazed and she didn't respond to him for minutes at a time. She wondered if it was noticeable to anyone else.

Joffrey glared at Lord Tyrion, and opened his mouth, but Margaery spoke first, placing a hand on his arm that he looked like he wanted to shake off, but didn't.

"His Grace has honored my wish to bare myself only before him," the new queen said, in that sweet, musical voice Sansa had so often observed her using, in an attempt to bring Joffrey down from his anger. "He is very kind to do so."

"Yes," Joffrey said, rather stiffly, straightening his collar. "She is my queen, after all. There will be no bedding ceremony to embarrass my queen."

Margaery's smile widened, as if he had just offered her a sweet. "Your Grace is so very kind to me. I only hope that I please you, tonight."

His eyes traveled down her form in a way that made Sansa feel sick. Or perhaps that was the wine. "Oh, I think I shall find you...very pleasing," he murmured, and Sansa wondered how Margaery managed not to blush at those words, or, at the very least, at his tone.

She did not, however, bat an eyelash.

Joffrey turned back to his captive audience, a leering grin on his face as he wobbled, and Margaery was forced to take his arm to keep him from falling on his arse.

It would not have looked very kingly to do so, after all.

Sansa wondered why Margaery did not simply let him fall, as Joffrey shoved out of  her grip and announced to the audience at large, "My queen and I shall retire now. Feel free to...continue the festivities. My uncle shall serve as cup bearer to any who claim him."

He let out a drunken giggle then, one that sounded almost mad but not quite, and Sansa imagined his head on a pike, instead of her father's.

"Come, my love," Margaery murmured, just loud enough to be heard, "I am quite tired from these festivities. You are a gentleman to leave them early on my account."

And then they were gone, and Sansa wondered how many bruises Margaery would wear, in the morning. How many of them would be visible.

Part of Sansa was wickedly relieved that she did not face such a vile fate, yet she easily tempered this thought with worry for her friend's own fate, now.

She didn't know how long the sweet-tempered Margaery would last, as Joffrey's bride.

She knew that Margaery was better at the game than she, but still she worried, for no one could ever outlast Joffrey.

"Well, there they go, then," Tyrion said, returning to his seat, and Sansa wondered if he was deliberately not thinking the thoughts that kept plaguing her mind.

That, not so long ago, it might have been she, walking off to the bedding chamber with Joffrey. The thought made her shudder visibly, and Tyrion sent her a look of concern. He'd been doing that more and more lately, looking at her in such concern that she ought to have been made of glass.

"Would you still care to go and rest, my lady?" he asked, his voice that oddly gentle tone that he seemed to reserve only for her, the one that she hated to hear because it only served to remind her that her husband, for all that he was an imp and scarred, was the least monstrous of his ugly family.

She took his proffered hand, grateful when he did not mention how she was shaking.

"I would be glad to," she told him, not meeting his eyes, and allowed Tyrion to escort her from the wedding and back to the chambers that she would never call home without a backward glance.

No one tried to stop them.

She would not know how much of a queen she had looked, in that moment.

Chapter Text

When they returned to their chambers, Tyrion looked rather lost, as he glanced at her, as if he felt that he should try and comfort her but did not quite know how.

It was a look she was becoming all too familiar with, from him, and Sansa was still unsure whether it relieved her or disturbed her.

She felt oddly reassured that things had returned to the way they should be when he turned and passed out on the little sofa by their bed, instead.

If he hadn't, she might have felt compelled to apologize to him for Joffrey's treatment of him, and she certainly didn't want to.

She didn't want to be comforted, after all.

Her most comforting moments were when she was alone, or when she was with Margaery, although those moments had grown less comforting as she realized that Margaery, like everyone in King's Landing, had a reason for her attentions, at least to some extent, and, in any case, had less and less time for her as the days drew closer to her wedding to a madman who hated Sansa as much as he lusted after her.

She was alone now, or as alone as she could hope to find herself in a city with Lannister's eyes and Lannister's ears, and glad to be gone from that horrid excuse for a wedding, glad to no longer be watching Joffrey mock her brother's death and laugh at her husband.

She didn't know how long she stood there, in the plain chambers of Tyrion Lannister, still absently holding the glass of wine she had never relinquished from the wedding feast, which had the whole time seemed out of place, to her.

She wondered if Tyrion had ordered that she have a glass so that he might drink it, or because he knew that this day would be painful for her.

She knew that her husband had endeavored to make their union as painless as possible for her since the day of their wedding, but somehow, she could not believe him capable of such a kindness.

Still, she had never been given wine before, at such gatherings. Sometimes, Cersei was cruel and made her drink, only to laugh when she sputtered it everywhere.

She had not choked on her wine, today, though she almost found herself wishing that she had.

There was a knock on the door, their door, and Sansa glanced up, setting aside the goblet of wine and calling out in a voice which betrayed her with its cracking, "Yes?"

She was half-expecting Joffrey to walk in, tired of his beautiful bride already and wishing to rape his lady aunt now, instead.

The door opened, and Shae stepped into the room, eyes taking in Tyrion, collapsed on the sofa, and Sansa's face, though she mercifully didn't comment on how pale she was as she shut the door behind, miraculously maintaining her balance despite the bundle in her arms.

"I brought more food, m'lady," she whispered, revealing a small, silver platter full of little cakes and cheese. "You left early, and I thought you might be hungry."

Sansa forced her eyes to soften from the glare she had no doubt that they were in. "I'm not hungry."

Shae nodded, not put off in the least. "Well, I'll just set them there, then, m'lady," she said, dutifully stepping into the room to set the platter on one of the cushioned tables. "Would you...like anything else?"

There were a great many things that Sansa Stark would like, but she knew that Shae could not fulfill any of them, knew that this self-pitying was unbecoming of her, when her friend was surely suffering not very many halls away.

"You could...sit for a while, if you like," she said, noncommittally, and pretended not to notice the way that Shae smiled as she sat beside her at the window overlooking the water.

"That one is from Braavos," Shae said, pointing out at the ship that was just a speck on the horizon, the sails too small to see from here.

They had not played their game in a while, the one where they guessed which ships came from where; Sansa had tired of that game after Shae had explained away the morbid amusement she'd gotten from it, but she forced a smile.

"Is it?" Sansa asked, taking a bite of lemon cake and pretending not to notice Shae's triumphant smile, pretending that she cared about this insipid game anymore, now.

The food Shae had brought her were lemon cakes, after all. Her favorite, once, and she might as well eat them now, seeing as they were here.

Shae nodded enthusiastically. "And it's carrying roses, today. To commemorate the wedding. Just stuffed full of them. The sailors have been dumping them overboard since they left port." She snorted, something about that particularly amusing to her, though Sansa didn't bother to ask why.

Another day, Sansa would have laughed, for she had no doubt that the Queen of Thorns would resort to such frivolities, considering the lengths to which she had gone to prepare for the wedding. Just to show to all and anon that the Tyrells had the money to be so careless.

"I don't want to play that game today," she told Shae finally, when Shae had pointed out another two boats full of Tyrell roses, and Shae glanced at her and then shrugged in acquiescence, doing as she always did when Sansa asked something of her.

Shae was perhaps the only person in King's Landing who did as Sansa wanted without question, and that scared her as much as it relieved her.

"You missed Lord Tyrell's rendition of the Bear and the Maiden Fair," Shae said suddenly, and Sansa glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. "Wasn't very good, but it was amusing. You might have laughed."

Sansa couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed. "Oh?" she asked tiredly, pretending interest.

Shae must have noticed, for she did not elaborate. "Almost made up for the rest of the wedding."

That did get a faint giggle out of Sansa, the laugh drier than she liked. "It was horrible, wasn't it?"

Shae's lips twitched. "Yes, it was."

Sansa hesitated then, wanting to ask something of Shae but not certain how her request would be perceived. "Shae...do you think that you could find a way to check on the Lady Margaery tomorrow? That she is...all right? Only...she is my closest friend here in King's Landing, and..."

Shae gave her a knowing look. "I'm friends with one of her ladies," she said finally, "I will ask after her."

Sansa nodded. She had expected nothing more, after all, and she doubted that even this would truly appease her strange worries.

Cersei had more than once told her that a woman could not afford to care about anyone but themself, and Sansa found herself caring about Margaery anyway, even though she knew that Margaery did not care about her quite to the same extent.

She needed something to distract her.

"Where do you come from, Shae?" Sansa asked abruptly.

Shae raised a brow, affecting bewilderment at the question. "Come from, m'lady?" Her accent gave her away, though, and Sansa kept on.

"You aren't from here. You have a strange accent, and you don't know the things that maidservants are supposed to know," she said, tone light. "And I see the way you look at Lord Tyrion, and the way he looks at you. I may be young still, but I'm not blind."

For the first time since they'd met, Shae's cheeks almost looked stained with a blush, but perhaps she had merely been drinking. "Sorry, m'lady."

Sansa smiled. "Don't be. You're a very beautiful woman and he..." she broke off then, unable to come up with a suitable lie. The truth was, Sansa had no idea what would attract any woman to her lord husband, and so could not think up a falsehood to spin, in this moment. Every time she looked at him, she saw only a Lannister, and a half man.

Shae laughed. "He isn't all bad, m'lady. Surely you've realized that by now."

Sansa hesitated. "He...he is kind to me," she admitted shyly, and Shae looked like she wanted to smile at that, but didn't.

"I came here from the North," Shae said, and Sansa raised a brow.

"I am from the North, and you don't sound North-born at all," she chided, and Shae smirked.

"I didn't know you paid such attention to my accent," she teased, and something about the words rankled Sansa, though she couldn't have said what it was.

"I am from Lorath," Shae said suddenly, and Sansa blinked at her.

"I've never heard of it," she admitted, after a long moment. In fact, it sounded familiar, but Sansa was too tired, with a sort of bone tiredness, to think too heavily upon the matter.

Shae laughed. "That would not surprise me. It is one of the Free Cities. Like Braavos, but no one in King's Landing cares about Lorath because they've no trade with the Westerosi. They...prefer piety above all else."

Sansa cocked her head at the other woman. "How did you end up here?"

Shae did laugh, then. "Can't imagine me praying to the gods at all hours of the day, can you?"

Sansa blushed. "I didn't mean..."

Shae waved a hand. "You did, but it's true. I didn't like it there. I ran away when I was younger than you. Traveled to Volantis and Pentos. Then, to Westeros. I always wanted to travel, when I was a little girl."

Sansa squinted at her, imagining that the story was rather longer than she'd made it sound. "What is it like, there?" she asked quietly.

Shae bit her lip. "Different," she said finally, and then shrugged. "Not better or worse, just different. Warmer."

Sansa snorted. "I can't imagine anywhere warmer than King's Landing."

"Well, that's because you're from the North,"  Shae said, affecting a shiver. "I was always freezing, there. Too warm-blooded."

Sansa smiled wistfully. "I suppose it would feel different now, to visit there."

Shae shrugged. "I don't think it would. Your blood never quite forgets itself, even if the rest of you does."

Sansa did not have long to ponder that, though she shivered at the words, wondering if they were some strange omen, or if that was just her imagination running wild. A cleared throat from behind them made her jump, nearly dropping the lemon cake she'd been eating as she turned to see her lord husband sitting up on the sofa, watching the two of them with something almost like fondness in his eyes.

Or perhaps it wasn't fondness. She could never quite tell, with the Imp.

"I seem to have taken a bit of a nap," he said, with a little, self-deprecating laugh that Sansa had grown quite accustomed to hearing, from him. She hated it.

"What did I miss?" his eyes focused on the food, and Shae laughed, holding out the tray for him to take a bite, and then holding it out to Sansa once more.

Sansa pretended to not be privy to Shae and Tyrion's plot to fatten her up, as she hadn't been eating as well since her mother and Robb's death, but their methods were rather obvious at the best of times. Still, they were endearing, and so she usual pretended to allow them.

Today, Sansa shook her head, and Shae bit back a sigh.

"Perhaps we could play a game," Tyrion suggested then, seeming to have picked up on Sansa's mood, voice a tad too cheerful.

Sansa did sigh. It was not that she did not appreciate his efforts; after all, as she had told Shae, he was kind to her. She simply couldn't trust them.

"I'm rather tired now," she said softly, and then glanced toward the bed.

Her lord husband had made the suggestion, some time ago, that perhaps a bed could be moved into the other corner of the room, that they might each sleep undisturbed. He had so far been gracious enough to always sleep on that little sofa in their little chambers, especially when he was drunk, which Sansa was terribly grateful for, even if she had never mentioned as much to her lord husband. Still, the bed had never arrived, because sometimes Cersei came here to gloat, and she would certainly have something to say about it, Sansa's lord husband had claimed.

Even her chambers as simply Lady Sansa, daughter of dead traitors, had been larger than the ones she now shared with Lord Tyrion, and she often wondered at that, that a dead traitor's daughter should be treated better by the Lannisters than their one of their own.

Just another proof that they were monsters, those lions.

Tyrion bit his lip, then, at some secret urging from Shae, Sansa supposed, "Lady Sansa-"

"Perhaps you and Shae could go to the gardens for a while?" Sansa interrupted, infusing a bit of hope into her voice. "Joffrey's sure to be kept busy for at least the rest of today."

Tyrion flinched. "Of course, my lady," he said finally, and Sansa hoped that she hid her breath of relief better than she thought she had.

Chapter Text

The Sept of Baelor. Full of stained glass windows and monuments to saints and kings alike. It was perhaps the only beautiful thing left in King's Landing, for Joffrey rarely came here to pray, and anything that had not been sullied by Joffrey's touch was found beautiful in Sansa's eyes.

Sansa wondered if Joffrey thought himself a god, and so did not feel the need to pray at all. She would not disbelieve it, if it were the case.

She prayed, as she always did, for the things she could not voice aloud. The things she knew she could not have.

She had come here to pray for her father's life, when she still thought Joffrey a creature capable of mercy. The Queen Mother had encouraged her to do so, in fact, told her to pray for his tarnished soul, as well, up until the very moment when Joffrey's butcher had chopped her father's head from his shoulders.

When Cersei later spoke of prayer, and how her own father had disillusioned her belief in the gods, Sansa had understood the joke.

But she continued to come here, even if she was not so certain that the gods would hear her prayers as she had once been.

She prayed for Arya, if she was even still alive. For Jon, to forgive her the years she had spent being less than kind to him, if he were even still alive. For poor Bran and Rickon's souls. For the soul of her father. For the soul of her mother and Robb, that the Father would grant them justice and the Mother mercy.

She sometimes went to the Kingswood where the old Heart Tree stood, to pray to the Old God's as her family had, but that task was growing harder and harder still, what with the way the Lannisters wanted always to keep an eye on her, and, after all, she had always found the Seven so romantic, as a child. Her septa had taught her so.

She prayed for justice. For Joffrey's death. For a reason to hope.

And, this time, she prayed for Margaery Tyrell.

She had not seen the new queen since the day of the wedding feast, when Joffrey had tugged his new bride away, half-drunk, and disappeared within their chambers.

That had been four days ago, and, although Shae had promised to bring her information about their new young queen, all that she had been able to ascertain was that Margaery was very busy adjusting to her new role as queen, and rarely saw the lady with whom Shae was friends.

It was hardly a comfort.

A part of Sansa wondered if Margaery was not still holed up within Joffrey's chambers, her body split open and bleeding, already filled with the next Lannister monster, and that was why she had not been seen by Sansa or by Shae.

Her waking eye was haunted by the thoughts of what might be happening to her friend, now that Joffrey could claim her for himself. Her sweet brother Loras would not be there to rescue her from him now, as Margaery had once intimated to her.

She imagined the bruises on that pretty, soft skin. The lashes. She imagined a split lip, a dribble of blood running down the front of Margaery's chin.

She could not imagine the wedding night, and she knew what horrors Jofrrey was capable of.

But she knew that it was not the case. Margaery had just been unable to see her since her wedding night, caught up in the affairs that a queen must see to, affairs more important than befriending a dead traitor's married off daughter.

She knew now that Margaery had gotten close to her because her family wanted Sansa to marry into the Tyrell House, that they might become the Guardians of the North through her, and when the game was up, Margaery hadn't been quite so attentive. Of course, she also hadn't had the time, preparing for her wedding.

Cersei made sure to torment her with such things, when she was deep in her cups and Sansa was nearby to play the victim for her, just as she made sure to torment her with tales of her lord husband the Imp.

But there was something more, Sansa thought, to their interactions than just political games. They had been, were, friends, in some respect, and so she pitied Margaery for what she imagined was happening to her right now.

"It's so morbid in here, isn't it?" a voice at her right made Sansa nearly jump out of her skin, and she turned.

"Ser Loras," Sansa blinked in surprise. "He was not wearing his white cloak, but the green of House Tyrell, and he looked out of place here, in the Sept. "I did not expect to see you here." Then she blushed, realizing what she had said. "I mean..."

Ser Loras chuckled. "It is quite all right, Lady Sansa. I do not usually find myself here." He glanced up at the statue of King Baelor the Blessed, and she almost thought she saw him hiding a sneer. "I've felt strangely pious, of late."

Sansa could well imagine why. She remembered Margaery's words to her, that were Joffrey to ever mistreat her, her beloved brother would not be contained, would fight for her honor.

Sansa had not found the words comforting then, wondering if Margaery's family wanted another bloody war between their noble houses on top of the one they already fought with Stannis Baratheon. Now, she wondered how House Tyrell had managed to contain Loras.

Sansa wouldn't have minded the civil war he might have caused; she wanted to see the Lannisters destroyed, but she did not so want to see Margaery harmed, and she did not want to face another battlefield as she had when Stannis had attacked King's Landing.

"Do you ever wonder," he said suddenly, voice so low that Sansa had to lean forward to hear him, "What could posess someone to do that? To sacrifice all of themselves for a cause?"

She noticed that he was still staring up at that statue, as if he half-expected it to come alive and explain itself to him.

Sansa placed a hand on his arm, and he stiffened at the touch. "I am sure that your sister will be fine, Ser Loras."

He turned, placing his hand over her own and staring down at her for a long moment before murmuring, "You are the worst liar in King's Landing, Lady Sansa. Has anyone ever told you that before?"

Sansa frowned, thinking of the time when Lord Baelish had said something similar. "Yes, they have."

He was gone now, returned to the Vale to marry her aunt Lysa, leaving her feeling even more alone than ever.

He had spent most of the time that she had been here in King's Landing, and while she had not always thought of him as her friend, she had thought of him as someone that she could, bizarrely, despite his reputation, trust, in this horrific place.

She wondered if he would grow to love her aunt as he had claimed to love her mother. If things like love even mattered, in relationships between other people.

When she glanced up again, Ser Loras was gone, and Sansa was alone once more in the Sept.

She sighed, for she did not think she could summon up the effort for more prayers today.

Chapter Text

According to her lord husband, Cersei had been locked away in her chambers since the wedding, refusing to come out and with only Ser Jaime and Lord Tywin allowed to enter her chambers, though her lord husband suspected that the latter was solely due to the fact that Lord Tywin would have the door to her chambers thrown down and would enter anyway.

He followed up this with a comment that she was most likely drinking herself to death in jealousy, said rather gleefully.

Sansa had pretended not to hear that comment, too horrified to really acknowledge it, and had continued picking at her food without eating any of it until Tyrion seemed satisfied enough with his own food and went off to find Lord Varys, for some reason or another that Sansa had only been half-paying attention to.

Sansa briefly entertained the idea of going riding, but she doubted that Shae knew how, as she was not a lady, however much she purported herself to be one as Sansa's handmaiden, and Sansa knew that she would not be allowed to go alone.

Sighing, she decided instead to go walking along the parapets surrounding King's Landing today, so long as she did not go too far, for there were certain things that she did not wish to see, there. But if one did not walk all of the way to the end, they could miss the sight of the heads lining the outer wall.

She told as much to Shae, who insisted on going with her, though Sansa could not say that she was entirely surprised.

Between the two of them, Lord Tyrion and Shae seemed to have made it their mission not to let her out of their sight, recently, along with their mission to fatten her up like a housewife.

It would have been endearing if they were not both loyal to the Lannisters, and therefore another reminder of her imprisonment here.

Though, she supposed, she did not truly know Shae's loyalty. The woman was confusing in that regard at the best of times, and, somehow, that made Sansa almost want to trust her, in a way that Lord Tyrion's friendship did not inspire.

There was no one on the walkway, today, for which Sansa was rather relieved; she found herself growing sick of unwanted company, and Shae, seeming to notice that her mood had not improved with sleep, was not being overbearing. She had not heard anything more about Margaery, though she had gone down to the royal kitchens and knew that Margaery's favorite breakfast had been made this morning, and had told Sansa so while she helped her dress this morning.

They walked in silence for some time, side by side, Sansa gazing over the parapet at the world beyond King's Landing. Shae seemed to realize that Sansa did not wish to speak, much to her relief, and for her own part seemed rather lost in thought.

She had found herself doing an awful lot of walking lately, whether it be here or in the royal gardens, and wondered if she would one day walk herself right off the parapets, and fall into one of the spikes kept there for errant heads.

It was not the first time she had considered such a thing, after all.

"Lady Sansa," a horribly familiar voice said then, sounding almost delighted in much the way Sansa would have imagined the lady's son to be, and Sansa sighed, wishing her husband had been able to tell her that Cersei had emerged from her self-imposed isolation, for all that he claimed to be such a fount of knowledge.

Sansa turned around, forcing a small smile that she knew was not quite as believable as Margaery's always were, but that the other girl would certainly appreciate the effort it took to maintain. "Your Grace."

Cersei's own smile was brittle as she walked forward, two Kingsguard behind her and a half-empty glass of red wine in her left hand. Her other hand moved to take Sansa's arm in her own, and Sansa shuddered at the touch, having to remind herself not to flinch back.

"Walk with me," Cersei ordered, and Sansa found that she could do nothing but comply. She sent Shae a sympathetic look as her maid found herself forced to walk behind the two Kingsguard, head bowed and features twitching with annoyance, though Sansa did not know if it was because of the new position or because of their intruders' presence.

The silence lingered for a long few paces, as Cersei finished off her wine and tossed the empty goblet as though it were nothing more than a clay mug over the short wall, lips twisting into some parody of a smile as they heard the sound of glass clinking and shattering below.

"Tell me, little dove, what do you think of our new queen?" Cersei asked suddenly, tilting her head at Sansa and regarding the younger girl as if she quite cared about Sansa's thoughts, for the first time that Sansa could remember in so long.

Sansa swallowed nervously, alarmed at the sudden questioning, although Cersei was never one to bother with pleasantries. At least, not with Sansa. "She is...very beautiful. And kind."

Cerseri snorted. "Yes, she is that. But is she anything more than a pretty doll? I do understand you've spoken to one another. Is she intelligent?"

Sansa wiped sweating hands on her dress. It would not do to let on about Margaery Tyrell's intelligence, for all that House Tyrell had been no real friend to her since the marriage with Willas had fallen out. The other girl didn't deserve to contend with Cersei Lannister in the same manner that Sansa was now forced to. "I...think so, Your Grace."

Cersei raised a brow. "My little dove," she said, reaching out and pushing a strand of hair behind Sansa's ear, and it took everything Sansa had not to flinch away at the contact, though her insides were roiling. "I hope you understand that I did not ask my son to set you aside out of any ill feelings between us. The Small Council believed that a Tyrell bride would be more beneficial, that was all, and I could not stick up for a traitor's daughter such as yourself. You are still quite dear to me, as an almost good daughter"

Sansa dipped her head, taking advantage of the movement to pull out of Cersei's touch. "I understand, Your Grace."

Cersei's eyes narrowed. "And I do sympathize, with your marriage to my little brother." Her lips curled up into a sneer. "I have always seen something of myself in you, and it has perhaps taught me to treat you somewhat more harshly than I should have."

Sansa blinked, wondered at Cersei's definition of the word. "You have treated me no more differently than I have deserved, Your Grace, as a member of a mostly dead House."

Cersei smiled; it reminded Sansa of the smile a serpent might give, before they struck. "All the same. I want you to know that you can always come to me, have you need of anything." She patted Sansa's hand.

Sansa wondered if the Queen Mother knew that her ploy was so transparent, or if that was the point, since she believed her little dove was so gullible as to fall for it once before.

But Sansa would not do so again, not when the first time had caused her father's head.

Still, it was strangely comforting, to know that Cersei was back to familiar games with Sansa. That the threats and taunting would cease, if only for a little while, because she believed that Sansa still had some use in her.

Even if this was only because she wanted to know about Margaery.

Sansa forced a smile. "I have never forgotten that, Your Grace."

Cersei squinted at her, as if attempting to muddle out the meaning of her words, or perhaps attempting to decide if there was some ulterior meaning to them. Sansa wondered if she would divine it. "Did you know that the Tyrells wished to marry you off to Willas Tyrell, their eldest, the cripple?"

Sansa bit her lip. "I...Became aware of it, Your Grace."

Cersei laughed, her voice taking on a cruel edge that reminded Sansa so much of Joffrey. "They would have sold you like cattle, and you'd be living your days far from here, just a piece in their game. Aren't you grateful you got to marry my baby brother, instead? At least he, for all of his...deficiencies, can...perform, for you."

Sansa flushed hotly. She thought, for a moment, about telling Cersei how she really felt, that surely it was better to be a pawn of the Tyrells than the Lannisters, for they'd no part in her family's brutal murders, but she knew the cost of such a statement.

"Very grateful, Your Grace," she ground out.

Cersei laughed. "Sometimes I believe my lord father agreed to the marriage between the two of you because he was hoping that you would strangle my little brother in his sleep. I certainly wouldn't blame you." She smirked, her voice turning dark with her next words. "If we can't have you, no one can."

Sansa paled, understanding the threat, and soon found some excuse to leave Cersei to the walkway and turn around, Shae following silently behind her, though she could feel the other woman's rising irritation toward Cersei, even as she held her tongue.

Cersei would come upon her father's head soon, anyway, and Sansa found herself not desiring to see that, in the least.

She had gone to look at it, once, since the horrible day when Joffrey had forced her to stare up at it so that he might relish in her pain. She had hardly recognized the man who had once been her father.

A grotesque mask covered a molding, pocked face, eaten away at by the birds, hair all gone, and disgusting patches of skin clinging to the skull.

But a part of her had still recognized her father, beneath all of that, and that had terrified her.

Sansa had not returned again.

She wondered what Cersei would see, when she eventually came upon it. Whether she would see Sansa's secret resolve to not become another head on that wall, no matter how many pretty words that would mean she would have to say, or if she would just see another dead man who had attempted to thwart her and failed.

Chapter Text

"The King is back to dealing with the people's grievances, today," Tyrion said lightly as he turned his back while Shae helped Sansa to dress in a light perriwinkle gown and her stockings.

Sansa's heart skipped a beat, and she forced herself to calm under the knowing look of Shae.

"Oh?" she murmured, pretending disinterest, well aware that neither of them believed her for an instant.

Shae moved behind her, tying her gown loosely, as she preferred it, not liking the thought of being stifled inside some gown, having spent enough of her time in a cage already.

"His queen is accompanying him, or so I'm told," Shae whispered to her, and Sansa nodded absently, wondering idly if it had been so long simply because the two were enjoying their newly consummated marriage so much or because they had to wait for the bruises on Margaery's body to fade.

Well, perhaps not quite idly. The thought had been a constant one in her mind since the new queen and king had barricaded themselves in their chambers and declared themselves to be celebrating for all of that time.

"I suppose you will want to go," Tyrion said knowingly, and Sansa flushed.

She had never wanted to go and witness the grievances of the King's people before. They usually ended in pain and agony for the petitioner, regardless of their plight, for Joffrey did so love to have smallfolk to hurt.

When she was Sansa Stark, Joffrey had ordered that she be there, to witness every single sentence being carried out.

When she became Tyrion's wife, she had found herself experiencing a few more freedoms she had not had before, and one such freedom was that Joffrey seemed to forget to order her to go about half the time, and Tyrion insisted that she did not need to go at all the other half.

But Margaery would be there.

She nodded, too ashamed to actually look Tyrion in the eye as she did so.

He sighed, and she realized then that he would likely feel it his duty to go with her, to ensure that Joffrey did not harass her.

She forced a thin smile. "I was going to watch from the balcony," she said, and then paused. "Shae can come with me."

Tyrion looked oddly relieved, at that. "I have another meeting with the Small Council," he told her, apologetically, but Sansa merely shrugged.

She knew that her lord husband wanted to protect her from Joffrey at every opportunity, but as Joffrey had once said, they were all there for his amusement; while Tyrion's presence could perhaps keep her from a beating, he could do little else.

Shae nodded. "Of course, my lady."

Tyrion shot Shae a look that Sansa couldn't quite interpret, before sighing, muttering something about women, and leaving.

When he left, Shae giggled, and Sansa glanced at him, one eyebrow raised.

"You're Lady Lannister now, Lady Sansa," Shae explained, her voice rather low, all hint of humor gone, "You could have anything of your husband, if you wanted it."

She gave Shae a disapprovingly look. "But I don't want anything of him."

Shae hesitated. "Nothing at all?" she asked.

It was Sansa's turn to lift a brow. "Was there something specific you had in mind?"

It was Shae's turn to blush then, though hardly as red as Sansa had ever done. "No, my lady."

It might just have been Sansa's imagination, but she thought that the other girl sounded almost relieved, in that moment.

Their walk to the throne room was a short one, because Sansa was on edge and could not help noticing the many patches of young women they past, whispering among themselves, and could not help imagining that they all whispered of Margaery.

Sansa found herself amidst a rather large group of ladies today, in the balcony, though she was happy to see that Cersei was not among them, rather standing among the crowded nobles below in the throne room, not quite close enough to the Iron Throne to be mistaken for still having a hold over it.

Joffrey lounged like a cat in the Iron Throne, as he usually did, and sometimes, Sansa found herself wondering how he could be so comfortable in that chair, glaring down at his subjects like the terror that he was. He was grinning, too, looking different from the last time that she had seen him, though she could not say just what it was that made him seem different.

Her eyes were not wholly for him, however.

Margaery sat in a high-backed chair just to the right of the throne, prim and proper and every inch the lady, hands clasped neatly in her lap. She was wearing the crown that had been placed on her head on her wedding day, tied into an intricate weave of hair that wrapped itself around her head and cascaded down her back, and Sansa noticed that, woven into it were strands of shimmering gold.

The gown she wore was a dark red; Lannister colors, with green and gold stitching around the low throat, looking like vines reaching up to choke her, Sansa couldn't help but think. The sleeves were sheer and green as well, glinting in the light of the throne room and going just below Margaery's elbows.

It reminded Sansa of something that Cersei might wear, though Margaery wore it better.

She was beautiful, with not a hint of the ugliness that Sansa had been expecting after so much time spent in Joffrey's company.

For a long moment, she was confused as to how that could be; perhaps she was imagining this Margaery, because the truth was too horrible for her mind to bear, but Sansa blinked, and there Margaery remained, as beautiful and untouched as she had been a moment before.

"There, you see?" Shae whispered in her ear, centering Sansa once more. "Your queen looks quite well."

Sansa nodded absently, still confused, remembering a half-dozen threats Joffrey had made to her, about what he would do to her on the night of their wedding, back when she had still been engaged to be married to him.

Then she realized Shae's wording, and blushed. "She is not my queen."

Shae huffed a laugh. "Of course, my lady."

Sansa rolled her eyes, the tension leaving her for a moment before Joffrey was speaking, and she found herself straining to hear, despite that normally she shied away from his words out of revulsion, if nothing else.

"One of my people has a grievance for me," Joffrey announced loudly, waving an impatient hand, and a man in rags, clearly one of the smallfolk, was shoved forwards by two Kingsguard then, nearly quaking in his boots.

Sansa sighed.

Joffrey rolled his eyes toward Ser Meryn. "If this one bores me as much as the last one did, Ser Meryn, you'll bring me his boring tongue, and his cock. We'll see which one is more useful on my supper plate. Who is he?" Joffrey asked, looking bored already.

Ser Meryn dipped his head, his voice sending a shiver down Sansa's spine as he responded just loudly enough for her to hear, "Yes, Your Grace. A peasant we found besmirching the Queen's name in the streets," he supplied, always so helpful to his king. "You ordered anyone besmirching your queen's name to be arrested."

Sansa raised an eyebrow at that, wondering at the cause behind such an order, for Joffrey had certainly always enjoyed hearing a bit of cruel gossip about Sansa, when she was his lady.

Joffrey turned a cold glare on the man standing before him, the damned man's fear making more sense now, though of course it was healthy to maintain when standing before Joffrey, and Sansa could see a bit of excitement in the king's eyes.

It had been a little while since he'd had someone to torment, judging by the state of Margaery's skin.

"How dare you speak ill of the queen?" Joffrey demanded, "Of my queen? Tell me, peasant, do you not enjoy having your head?"

He laughed then, loud and ringing, at the threat, at the little man cowering in response to it.

Joffrey glanced at Margaery and, almost not in time, the girl laughed as well, her laughter warm and musical and full in the Great Hall.

Sansa thought that she might be sick.

Prince Oberyn, standing not so far away, looked equally so, though not by Margaery's reaction, perhaps, so much as Joffrey himself. He bent down, whispering something in Ellaria Sand's ear, before looking straight up at Sansa.

Sansa flushed and glanced away.

The arrested man was still talking, and she forced herself to focus on his words.

"Your Grace," the little man said, not quite daring to look up at his king. "The Good Queen Margaery promised the scraps of the wedding feast to the smallfolk of King's Landing," the man said, voice growing louder with each word.

Sansa wondered why the smallfolk ever bothered coming before their king with complaints anymore. Hadn't they learned their lesson by now?

Joffrey waved a hand when the man paused. "I am aware of it," he said, turning and smiling at his queen, who smiled back, just as bright as though he had handed her the sun, with that look. "My lady is very kind."

"She is," the little man agreed, "but her promised scraps never arrived. Many of the smallfolk, well, we were wondering, because so many of us are hungry, why-" his voice broke then, and he swallowed hard.

Sansa's eyes narrowed when she saw the smirk Cersei turned on a very pale Margaery, then.

Joffrey frowned, looking rather bemused, and for a moment Sansa caught herself waiting for him to wonder aloud why in the seven hells he should care about a few dead peasants, or a queen's promise to them, so she was rather surprised to hear him say, "Are you accusing my lady of lying?"

The man hurriedly shook his head. "No, Your Grace, no-"

"Well, why did it never arrive?" Joffrey asked, leaning forward in his chair, suddenly seeming interested in the proceedings.

"We don't know, Your Grace, that's why-"

Joffrey raised a hand, silencing him. "I wasn't asking you," he said, annoyance bleeding into his tone, and the man seemed to curl even further in on himself, though Sansa could not imagine why.

There was a long, awkward pause, during which Sansa could have made a clear guess at what had happened to that food, though truly she wondered why Joffrey seemed to care at all.

He had never cared for the plights of the smallfolk before this, and she thought that he would usually have ordered off the man's head by now, rather than simply hinting at it.

"Ah," a bumbling voice from the back of the crowd of nobles sounded then, and Sansa watched Maester Pycelle's slow progression to the front of the throne room warily, for she knew that he was always for the Lannisters and would not dare to speak an ill word of Cersei, but that he would not dare to do anything the king did not wish, either.

How a few scraps of food were so important, Sansa did not know, and she glanced once more at the Queen Mother, this time in confusion.

If her lord husband were here, Sansa had no doubt that Lord Tyrion would be making some witty remarks about the gravity of this situation, and that perhaps she might be doing something far more entertaining than watching Cersei.

Cersei looked almost as pale as Margaery had, at the mention of the missing food, her hard glare directed toward Maester Pycelle too far away for his old eyes to see, though Sansa had a clear view of it.

"It appears there has been some confusion as to that matter, to no one's fault," the maester said, clearing his throat and glancing around awkwardly, but seeming to come to the conclusion that he was on his own here, when Cersei did not even deign to look at him. "And perhaps that is why the food never found it's destination."

Joffrey once again looked bored, slouching in his throne and picking at his fingernails. "Well?"

"The Queen Mother gave orders for the scraps to be given to the dogs, while the queen ordered for the scraps to be given to the poor," the maester said sagely, as though his words were the beginning of all wisdom, and Sansa barely refrained from rolling her eyes. "There was simply...confusion."

Joffrey's eyes narrowed on his mother for a long moment, but then he turned to Ser Meryn once more, evidently wishing to be done with this display. "Then I have a solution," he said, a dark glee filling his voice which instantly made Sansa nervous. "Slaughter the dogs, and give them to the poor." He laughed. "They can eat them, instead!"

"Your Grace..." the pathetic little creature standing before the throne began to beg, falling to his knees and holding his hands out in supplication.

Sansa sighed once more.

Joffrey lofted to his feet, glaring. "Silence! I've not done with you yet. You still insulted my lady. What did he say, Ser Meryn?"

Ser Meryn was only too quick with his answer. "He called Her Grace a liar and accused her of being a lying whore, as well."

"There," Joffrey said, frowning. "And you are neither of those things, are you, my lady?" He didn't wait for a response. "So," he said, glaring at the man on the floor, "I ought to make an example of you. Perhaps...yes, perhaps I will have your tongue and cock cut off. After your head. What do you think, my lady? Will your name survive that?"

Joffrey turned, leering at his queen now, and the whole court seemed to freeze as Lady Margaery stood, walked to stand beside her husband.

She held out her hand, and he took it, and Sansa wondered how she could voluntarily touch such a creature.

"I think that you are most wise, my love," she murmured, with that bright smile she used when talking about how she cared for the smallfolk so.

Then she leaned forward, and kissed him on the mouth, an open kiss that had Joffrey arching toward her, looking almost desperate when she pulled away.

Sansa was beginning to understand why their new queen was not covered in bruises, this woman such a contrast from the kind woman who had befriended her almost immediately upon coming to King's Landing, reminding Sansa eerily of how even Cersei had been kind to her, in the beginning.

Ser Meryn reached out and dragged the accused to his feet, blubbering and begging.

Sansa felt her breakfast coming up in her throat just as Margaery and Joffrey stopped for air, and the next grievance came forward.

She understood, to some extent, why there was so much relief when Margaery was married to Joffrey rather than Sansa. It was not because the nobles of King's Landing cared at all about her, but rather because Margaery had a way with Joffrey that none other could understand.

Sansa understood that, to some extent, Margaery was meant to control him, to keep him from doing anything too horrid whilst serving as a petty distraction while the Small Council ruled Westeros in his name. Which was why he was dealing with rabble rousers insulting his queen rather than more important matters, such as the war with Stannis Baratheon.

She was supposed to curb his tendencies for sadism, certainly, not encourage them. Not join him in them.

"I...need to leave," she told Shae, who nodded in understanding, after searching her face.

"Of course," she murmured, going in front of Sansa to clear the way rather more quickly, and Sansa followed after her, glad that the proceedings below were too interesting for any eyes, for once, to be on her, instead.

But then she turned in the doorway, one last time, and saw their new queen's eyes following her, their indiscernible depths clouded.

Sansa wondered, as she walked away, which Margaery was the real one.

Chapter Text

"Your friend the new queen seems to be making quite a stir at Court," her lord husband said as they dined together that afternoon. The meeting of the Small Council had gone much faster than usual, and this perhaps due to the fact that their king was back to his

Sansa swallowed, the food in her mouth suddenly dry and tasteless. "So she is."

"There's bets going around, probably not appropriate for young ladies such as yourself, wondering how she manages to keep Joffrey on the leash she has him on," Tyrion went on. "Or how long it'll take for the Two Terrors to kill everyone in King's Landing. I do not think it was anyone's intention to give him a queen who would not reign him back."

Sansa took a long sip of wine.

He gave her a long, knowing look. "Lady Sansa, the new queen is just as much a subject of these games as the rest of us. Perhaps more so."

Sansa knew that, of course. Knew that Margaery laughed and smiled prettily at the horrid little creature she was wed to because to do otherwise would be foolish, would endanger her very existence. Knew that Margaery was smarter than she had been in doing so, and that Joffrey listened to her more so than anyone.

But it was still horrifying to see Margaery laugh at another man's distress, to see her kiss Joffrey after he had done the things he'd done, to think of her lying in his bed and telling him that he was the king in her pretty tones, encouraging him...

"We are to have a visitor, tonight, over supper," Tyrion announced presently, and Sansa blinked up at him from where Shae was combing her hair.

"Oh?" she affected an air of disinterest, for usually when her lord husband had a visitor, it was someone like Lord Varys or Ser Jaime, and she was kindly bid to go wander the gardens, or whatever it was that she did all day, while they talked alone.

She was not normally invited to such gatherings herself, and, for the most part, Sansa was pleased to miss them.

"Prince Oberyn Martell," Tyrion said, giving her a long, searching look. "He, ah, rather invited himself."

Sansa blinked at him. "Ah. Would you like me to leave then, when he arrives?"

Tyrion hesitated. "I think, my lady, if you are willing, that a fresh face would do you good." He cleared his throat. "Be warned though, that Prince Oberyn is rather...different from most lords whom you might be used to."

Sansa squinted at him. "He's not the only lord I know who frequents the brothels, my lord."

Tyrion cleared his throat a tad more loudly, this time. "Yes, well. All the same. It is very likely that he is visiting us because he wants something of us. Do remember that he is known as a viper."

"You are known as an Imp," Sansa pointed out, not quite sure whether she was teasing him or not.

"Yes," he agreed, glancing at her cautiously, as if he did not understand where her words were going, either.

She smiled, presently. "Don't worry. I won't give you cause for concern. I have no interest in the Prince of Dorne."

She was Sansa Stark, after all. She was terrible at playing politics as the rest of King's Landing did, and Dorne was so very far away.

Tyrion looked relieved. "Good," he said, and she glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. "I mean..."

Sansa snorted. Then, "I was wondering..." she chewed on her lower lip nervously, "If you would teach me how to play that game from the Free Cities?"

He blinked at her, looking rather surprised. "Cyvasse?" he clarified, and Sansa nodded, forcing a smile.

He had mentioned the game in passing more than once, having gotten it from the ships newly arrived from Pentos, a strategy game that the Pentoshi and the people of Dorne loved and that had not quite caught on yet in Westeros, for here they liked games with higher stakes.

Sansa had blown him off each time, not wishing to be forced into his company alone long enough for the duration of a game.

"I think...it is a very thoughtful game," she said carefully. "I could use something else to think about."

Tyrion stared at her for a long moment, and then clapped his hands together. "Yes," he said, rather too gleefully, she thought, and wondered with a small pang of guilt easily pushed aside whether he had not found anyone else in King's Landing to play this new game with. "Very well."

He hurried over to where the board and pieces were stashed in a drawer in the far side of the room and brought them back to their dining table, and Sansa sat down once more, smoothing out her skirts and pretending, for a moment, that she was as good an actress as Margaery.

At least her husband was easily pleased, though Sansa had a feeling that was due more to her harsh treatment of him in the beginning of their marriage than because her agreeing to spend time with him now.

She had come to accept that her husband did not want her carnally, and was just as willing as she to keep what could hardly be called their relationship platonic, and was still able to be kind to her when others were not looking.

She did not understand it, of course, for Cersei had once told her that men wanted nothing from a woman than what was between her legs, but she had come to accept it nonetheless.

"How do you play?" she asked skeptically, looking down at the many different pieces, hers jade and his ivory, as her husband sat down across from her and began arranging the pieces on the board.

"It is a game of strategy," Tyrion explained, "And everyone may play it a bit differently. The goal of the game is to kill my king before I kill yours, and to defeat as many of my pieces as you can before then with your own."

It reminded her of one or two games she had played back home, in Winterfell, though they had looked much different than this one. Much simpler.

Perhaps her lord husband thought that she could learn something from this game.

Perhaps she could.

Sansa squinted at the checkered board as her husband finished setting up the pieces, and then reached for his wine.

She reached out then, not entirely sure what possessed her, and put a hand on his pudgy arm. "Perhaps...wait until the game is over," she said quietly, remembering Shae's words that she could ask what she liked of him and he would be like to give it to her. "Keep your head clear."

He stared at her for a long moment, and then laughed, low in his throat. "It is a dangerous thing, to tell a Lannister to set aside their wine," he said, and Sansa swallowed hard. He seemed to realize then, that his joke had fallen flat, and sighed, pushing the wine to the side of the table and glancing at it mournfully every two or three turns.

Sansa breathed in relief.

She had not been able to make herself comfortable around those so comfortable with wine after seeing its effect on the Queen Cersei, and no matter how hard he tried, Sansa still imagined Lord Tyrion filling with drink and forcing himself on her.

She remembered his pretended drunkeness at their wedding, how he had startled her so when she realized that he was not as drunk as he claimed.

And she felt something...almost warm inside her, at the sight of him doing something just for her, even though she knew she should not care at all.

Very few people indulged Sansa Stark these days, though.

It took her a few turns to get the hang of the game, Tyrion patiently explaining why she couldn't make certain moves or why he had been able to take one of her pieces, and Sansa unsure whether she was beginning to understand better or simply becoming more confused.

"But...that's the elephant," Sansa said finally, dumbfounded, as his last elephant took her dragon. "Why is it so powerful?"

She had heard of elephants, read about them. They lived in the South, in Essos and the lands beyond that. They were great, huge creatures, lored for their wisdom but not for their strength, sometimes ridden into battles but generally deemed too docile for actual fighting, unlike dragons and horses.

Tyrion gave her a pained smile. "I think that the creators of this game understood that, as in life, there are pieces that can become useful because they are overlooked."

Sansa glanced up at him, wondered if that was some secret code that she did not understand, and was startled by a knock on the door to their chambers.

She had not realized how long they had been playing the game, and she glanced toward the door, realizing she was in fact hungry.

Her lord husband sighed, getting to his feet and walking to answer the door with one last hesitant look back at Sansa.

Prince Oberyn and his lady friend, Ellaria Sand, or, the 'Dorne bastard,' as she had Cersei call the woman more than once, stood just outside the door, the prince whispering something in Ellaria's ear that made her trill a laugh.

Sansa stood to her feet, once again smoothing down her dress and feeling foolish that she had gotten so wrapped up in the game that she had forgotten they were having guests.

Her mother would have reprimanded her for not at least changing before greeting them, for not being a better hostess, even if only this small chamber in the Red Keep partially belonged to her.

That thought quenched the sudden feeling of hunger in her stomach.

Ellaria Sand was beautiful, as she always was, dressed in an almost-sheer golden gown with no sleeves and a plunging neckline that accentuated her dark skin, her hair pulled back into a severely beautiful netted wrap, and her eyes lined with black.

Her lover was equally as beautiful, Sansa could not help but think, blushing when he turned his gaze on her. His shirt was open, revealing a finely toned, lean chest, and Sansa found herself having a difficult time not looking at the fine hairs there.

"I hope that you do not mind that I have brought my paramour, Ellaria," Oberyn said, his voice deceptively mild, as he stepped into their rather cramped quarters.

Tyrion shook his head, even sending the woman a wide smile. "Not at all, not at all. Welcome, my lady."

She snorted. "I am not a lady. I find myself being called that far too often, in this place."

Sansa had been told that Arya more resembled her aunt Lyanna than anyone in their family, that she was the spitting image, and acted quite a bit as she had back then, too.

Tyrion glanced between the two of them, looking unsure. "My apologies, then," he said, voice one that Sansa recognized as slightly amused.

Prince Oberyn turned to her then, nodding his head demurely.

"Lady Stark," Prince Oberyn greeted her, his voice rather stiff.

Tyrion did not bother to correct him on the title, for which Sansa was rather relieved, even as she awkwardly curtseyed and took her seat, not quite looking at either of their guests.

She had never been Lady Stark, after all. That was her mother, dead now, and she had been wed to Lord Tyrion before she could be named Lady Stark in her mother's stead.

As if anyone would have allowed that.

"Prince Oberyn. Ellaria Sand," she said primly, and ignored the flush on her face when she heard his lady's trill of quiet laughter, quickly quelched.

Sansa had been told that Arya more resembled her aunt Lyanna than anyone in their family, that she was the spitting image, and acted quite a bit as she had back then, too.

She wondered, if, when Prince Oberyn looked at her, he saw her aunt, anyway.

"You are playing cyvasse," Prince Oberyn said suddenly, squinting at the board that still lay out on the table, the pieces still in place.

"Attempting to," Tyrion quipped, with a self-conscious grin. "I am afraid neither of us are quite skilled at it as your people must be, in Dorne."

"That is not what I have heard of you, Lord Tyrion," Prince Oberyn said coolly, "Or are the rumors of your work at Blackwater Bay unfounded?"

Sansa could not be sure, but she almost thought that her husband looked embarrassed at the compliment.

It must have been difficult, to be the hated child of the Lannisters, growing up.

That thought, of course, reminded her of Jon, of how he had grown up, and her sympathy for her lord husband vanished in the next instant.

Still, she found herself suggesting, "Perhaps we should eat," and clapping her hands for Shae and Pod to bring their food.

Her husband looked somewhat relieved. "Yes, of course," he said, and Shae and Pod suddenly appeared, making Sansa wonder if they had been there the whole time, and, if so, why they had not intruded earlier.

Her hsuband certainly was not one to stand on ceremony.

The food was simple enough fare, Sansa thought when they were all sitting to eat it, Tyrion and Sansa across a low table on the floor from Ellaria and Oberyn, who did not seem at all put out to be seated on cushions. Rice and roast goat and peppers and other vegetables, as well as a roll of bread each and a glass of wine.

Sansa had found it rather disconcerting, the first couple of times, though she found it much more comfortable to sit on the floor, now.

After all, it took much longer for her lord husband to stand from the floor than it did from a chair, and she could usually get to her feet before him.

Her lord husband and Prince Oberyn were speaking of Small Council matters that held no interest for her, despite that she knew on some level that they should. She had spent so long pretending to be the empty headed little dove, finding politics dangerous and thus uninteresting, that she was beginning to become afraid that it was the truth.

And Ellaria Sand was staring at her, unblinking and intently, with an expression on her face that Sansa could not quite read, but which disturbed her nevertheless.

She picked at her food with a fork, trying very hard not to meet the other woman's eyes.

"I have decided to remain a little while longer in King's Landing, though the wedding is over," Prince Oberyn said, and, though she had not dared to lift her eyes to meet his, Sansa got the distinct impression that he was staring directly at her, too, "I have business here yet."

She wondered if Prince Oberyn looked at her and saw Lyanna Stark, even so.

Tyrion cleared his throat, not seeming to notice. "My father has appointed you to the Small Council permanently, I understand, as an honor to Dorne."

Prince Oberyn sounded amused as he said, "Yes. I would be remiss in my duties to His Grace if I left so soon, without annother appointed in my place of suitable rank."

"There are very few who can match the title of prince," Tyrion pointed out amiably.

Oberyn smirked. "Indeed, there are not."

"However, with the end of the wedding, there is no real reason for you to stay," Tyrion said, and, for some reason that Sansa could not understand, he sounded almost sympathetic, as if anyone would want to stay in this place. "Your presence can be felt just as fully here as in Dorne."

"I found the ceremony distasteful," Oberyn spoke up, voice and eyes hard. Sansa had begun to wonder if he would not speak again, and jolted when he did. "And I would not have come were it not a slight upon our king to do otherwise."

"Our new king is very young," Tyrion said, sounding almost like he was flailing, then, and Sansa took pity on him, before the Prince and his paramour could go on.

There was not much that one could say to excuse the actions of Joffrey the Illborn, anyway.

"The Queen looked beautiful," Sansa said, causing three sets of eyes to turn to her, before remembering that she didn't like such attention and slinking down in her seat.

"The decor was lovely," Ellaria agreed, "Did the Tyrells fund it?"

The hidden insult was there, and Sansa wondered if her husband simply didn't see it or chose to ignore it. She suspected the latter.

"Queen Margaery is much beloved by her family," he said, instead of answering, though Sansa supposed that that was an answer in and of itself.

Oberyn nodded. "Her brother, Lord Willas Tyrell, has intimated as much to me in our letters."

"You write to him?" Sansa asked in some surprise, before remembering her resolve not to care about such things, and flushing.

Margaery had wanted to marry her to Willas Tyrell, ship her away to Highgarden where her claim to the North could be exploited without Lannister interference. Cersei Lannister was now to marry Willas. He held no more interest to Sansa.

Oberyn eyed her, looking just as surprised as she had been by the question. "We have a mutual love of horses," he explained, and Sansa nodded, as if that explained much more than it did. "I understand that you and Queen Margaery are friends in much the same manner."

Sansa flushed, though she wasn't certain why she did so, wondering what the Prince had meant by that.  "Yes," she agreed, "We..." she paused, suddenly unsure how to finish that sentence. They were friends, yes, but were they still, after what Sansa had seen in the throne room?

"My condolensces, then," Prince Oberyn muttered, and Sansa's eyes widened while Ellaria elbowed her paramour.

"You must forgive my lover," she said, leaning forward, "He has no sense of discretion."

Prince Oberyn laughed lightly. "As if you are any better, my dear."

Ellaria laughed, and the conversation steered into safer waters.

Sansa found herself wondering what it was like, to love someone as wholly as these two seemed to love each other, even when neither was bound by the weight of a marriage.

She started as Lord Tyrion reached forward to refill her wine, and he paused, glancing at her in some concern, and he was not the only one to do so.

He removed his hand from the wine flask, and Shae stepped forward to refill her cup instead, Sansa blushing crimson before  taking a long gulp of the stuff, figuring she rather needed it, now.

Chapter Text

When one recieved an invitation to dine with the King and the Queen, it would be foolish to refuse.

That was what Sansa told herself as she let Shae tie up her hair into an elaborate bun that might have rivalled one of Margaery's own hairstyles, let her dress Sansa in a gown of pure blue starlight, what she thought as she slipped into a pair of pale white slippers.

Her lord husband blinked when he saw her, standing from where he had been sitting on the sofa, swallowing loudly into the ensuing silence, and Sansa blushed, glancing down at her hands and thus being able to pretend she didn't see the look Shae shot his way.

"Right. Uhm, Lady Sansa, you look..." he cleared his throat again, and then offered his arm out to her. "Shall we?"

Sansa lifted a brow at that, wondering, and glanced down at his trousers, to see them tented. She blushed and quickly looking away, though she did offer up her arm.

Behind her, she could almost hear Shae steaming, and bit back a smile at her fierce protector's annoyance.

The meal was to be had in one of the many extra dining halls connected to the King's chambers, which Sansa had once thought so exciting and now found as frivolous as her husband seemed to.

Shae could not go with them, of course, for there would be servants there for that purpose, and Sansa had seen the rather heated argument that she and Lord Tyrion had gotten into over it, and wondered why her lord husband allowed a servant to speak to him that way, even as she felt a sort of warmness within her to know that someone cared as much as Shae did.

In the end, propriety had won out, and Shae had not spoken a word since, save for to Sansa in soft whispers about her clothes and hair.

Sansa did not know how many were attending, beyond the members of House Lannister, but she hoped that the gathering was small.

She did not wish to be stared at by the Prince of Dorne and his lady again. Their stares were damning, reminded her that she was not just a sad, hopeless girl in King's Landing.

They were nearly to the already loud dining hall when they were intercepted.

Sansa stiffened upon seeing the white cloak of the Kingsguard, but her lord husband smiled widely, seeming to forget her presence completely as he walked forward to greet his brother.

"Jaime. I see we're both late."

"Tyrion," Ser Jaime said, grinning impishly at his little brother as he joined them. "I am surprised you showed up, after the last one."

The words were harsh, though their tone was not, but her lord husband did not seem at all offended by them, as Sansa imagined he might have done had Cersei or Lord Tywin uttered them.

Tyrion instead raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "It was a royal summons."

Jaime had the grace to look slightly chagrined. "The King's in a good mood. I think this new queen is...good for him."

Sansa flinched.

Tyrion smirked. "She certainly seems his equal."

Ser Jaime cracked a smile at that, and then gestured with his golden hand for them to proceed him.

Sansa had not seen the Hand since his return to King's Landing, and could not help but to glance at it, hoping he did not see her stare, as she passed him.

She wondered if it was indeed made of solid gold.

The servants pulled the doors to the dining hall open, and they stepped through, Sansa taking a deep breath and blinking when she noticed Tyrion do the same.

"Ah, Uncle!" Joffrey's loud, nasally voice shouted out as they entered, and it took Sansa a moment to find him, amidst the sea of blonde hair surrounding the rather large dining table.

She was strangely relieved to see that, beyond Margaery, there were only Lannisters here, though she did not know why it should be a relief, to find herself in a den of lions.

"We were beginning to think you wouldn't come," Joffrey said, a veiled threat in the words, "But of course I know you would never disappoint my new bride."

Tyrion dipped his head to Margaery, and then started toward his seat, pulling Sansa along beside him, and she barely refrained from stumbling as she followed.

Thankfully, Joffrey seemed too preoccupied with Lady Margaery to continue tormenting his uncle.

Ser Jaime sat down to Sansa's side, beside Cersei, which didn't surprise Sansa, though she was somewhat glad for the barrier, for she was not quite as frightened by the Kingslayer as she was by Cersei.

Tyrion took a seat between Sansa and little Prince Tommen, Sansa noticing that the three of them were as far from Joffrey as it was possible to get, at this table.

"Uncle Tyrion," Tommen gave his uncle a wide smile as Tyrion sat down beside the boy, and Sansa could not help but smile herself.

Tommen was such a sweet child, despite being part of such a horrible famliy, that she could never find it within herself to hate him.

She wondered when that would change.

The thought turned Sansa's previous resolve to indifference for the party about her, and she sighed as the courses were brought, and the wine poured.

In her mind, the Rains of Castamere played loudly.

She picked at the food on her plate, for suddenly the meat appeared bloody.

The others had begun eating with relish, however; Ser Jaime with an appetite that made  her nose twitch as she glanced quickly away from him.

She hardly remembered the knight who had come to Winterfell and gone to fight against her brother Robb, but she did not think she could quite compare him with the man who had finally come back, years later, and it was not just because of the hand.

She supposed that, after years in captivity, one would eat whatever they could get their hands on.

The thought was, strangely, funny to her, for, while Ser Jaime scarfed down every last piece of the food on his plate, she, still a captive, could not bring herself to take a single bite.

She noticed Lord Tywin giving her an assessing glance then, and took a long sip of bitter wine, not meeting his eyes.

Sansa did not think that Lord Tywin had ever relaxed, for he sat as stiff and alert now as he always did in the throne room, picking up his silver fork and knife almost daintily when he cut into the quail on his plate.

The chatter about them had died down as they ate, but Sansa could see the way the Queen Mother was itching to speak long before she turned her attentions fully on the Lady Margaery.

Cersei sent Margaery a cold smile. "I imagine you are finding your new life very exhausting, Lady Magaery. You are...quite pale."

Margaery glanced up, smiling brightly across the table. Sansa did not know how anyone who had spent any extended amount of time in King's Landing could smile so.

"Oh, on the contrary," she said, all too sweetly. "I find I am having far too much enjoyment in my first days of wedded bliss to my beloved king to even allow myself to succumb to tiredness."

Tyrion guffawed into his drink, and Cersei pursed her lips.

"I felt that way too, at first," she said, and Tyrion looked to be choking, then, "But it will pass. Being a queen is not so glamorous as those first few lovely days."

"I think she was referring to the nights," Tyrion muttered, and Sansa coughed into her sleeve, Lord Tywin sending them a stern look from across the table, as though they were recalcitrant children.

Joffrey ignored them. "My queen," his arm wrapped posessively around Margaery's lithe waist, "will have a different experience from yours, Mother. And she'll be quite content."

Margaery smiled at him, dimples puckering her cheeks. "Quite so, my love. I already am."

"I expect I'll have a child in my queen's belly by the next moon," Joffrey said, squeezing Margaery's arm in what strangely looked like affection.

Cersei smiled coolly, taking a long sip of her wine. "I am glad for you, Your Grace."

He smirked, attention focusing on Sansa now as he let go of Margaery. "Perhaps you'll have a Lannister babe by then, too, and the both of you can deliver together. They could be brothers."

"In spirit only, I'd imagine," Tyrion said mildly, a warning in his tone that Joffrey would no doubt forget to heed.

"Oh, yes," he said, his eyes dancing with mirth, "Like Mother and Cousin Lancel."

Sansa figured she'd missed out on that particular joke, if the way Ser Jaime's one good hand clenched was any indication.

"More meat pie, my love?" Margaery interrupted then, smiling her dazzling, fake smile to her husband and holding out a platter.

She had never smiled that way to Sansa, and Sansa found herself relieved, for, though it was a beautiful smile, even she, less adept at court games than anyone at court, could see that it was not a genuine one.

It was not like the smiles that Margaery gave her as they walked the gardens, nor like the smiles that she gave her when they were gossiping, nor like the ones she gave her when smirking about one of their little secrets.

Those were real. And they had been for Sansa, even if she might never see them again.

This Margaery was not.

Somehow, knowing that seemed to help with the horror she had been feeling at Margaery's expense and provocation, over the last few days.

Joffrey turned to his queen, smiling in a way that was almost shy as he opened his mouth and ate the food off of the fork, and Margaery's eyes danced.

Chapter Text

Joffrey was laughing when Sansa stepped onto the dais, where she had been summoned, interrupting a live performance by actors that had no doubt come a very long way to perform before their child king.

She wondered if it was because he had seen her, or the performance he watched was so amusing.

No one else was laughing.

There were courtiers milling about as well, sitting in long chairs and sofas, partaking in grapes and other snacks, but, as always, it was Margaery who caught Sansa's eye, seated in the same loveseat as the king, eating candied roses out of his hand and wearing a gown made of pure silver, its plunging neckline not serving as enough of a distraction to their young king.

Sansa hardly noticed those around her, as she stepped nimbly forward and curtseyed before Joffrey, as she was meant to, her face burning, for she knew well what was coming.

She had already endured Cersei's taunts when she awoke this morning, the woman not even giving her the time to prepare herself to face the cruel world about her before bursting into her room to speak of them.

"My father has summoned Tyrion," she said, brushing into the room and glowering at the bed that Sansa lay in as though it had done her a personal grievance. "To speak with."

Sansa flushed, pulling the sheets up around her and wondering where Shae was. "I do not know-"

"He wants to know why there isn't a Lannister baby in your belly," Cersei said, and Sansa wondered if it was possible to be drunk this early in the morning, before the sun had even risen.

If Cersei ever stopped being drunk.

"My brother isn't exactly known for his chasteness," Cersei continued, ignoring the way that Sansa had suddenly paled, "So, you see, it's most strange. Perhaps, despite all of his whoring, he really is impotent."

Sansa was flushing crimson, by then.

Cersei eyed her coldly over her glass of wine. "If I were you, I would hurry it along in any way I could, little dove. Before my father gets it into his head that there must be a witnessed consummation to your tragic little marriage."

"I heard my lord grandfather reprimanded my uncle for his ill treatment of you today, loudly enough that everyone heard, I think."

Joffrey giggled, squeezing Margaery's hand. Hard. Their new queen, however, merely smiled; though today it was rather brittle. "Something about...Oh, what was it, my lady?"

"Lord Tywin believes that the marriage between you and Lord Tyrion is not what it should be. Is not...wholly genuine," Margaery responded dutifully, and was rewarded with another candied rose placed on her tongue, and Sansa indulged in a black moment of hate toward the other girl, even if she knew that there was naught else that Margaery could do.

Joffrey giggled, standing to his feet and seeming to forget his lady wife. "What, my lord uncle isn't whetting his cock on you? I find that hard to believe. Settle this matter for us at once, Lady Sansa."

"My lord husband is most dutiful in his actions toward me," Sansa lied, and it wasn't really a lie, not truly.

He was kind to her, as a husband ought to be, and, she knew, protected her from Joffrey as best as he was able.

She had not seen him since the day before, and knew that, had she, he would have comforted her in all of this, reassured her that he had no wish to take advantage of her in such a way, that he would find some other way out of this.

But she had not seen him.

And she did not know that for certain.

Joffrey smirked, leaning forward until his bowed lips pressed against her skin, making her feel sickly. "Does he rape you each night, hoping to put a Lannister baby in you?"

Sansa shivered, swallowed hard. "Your Grace-"

"My love, perhaps we should continue with the entertainment before the food grows cold-" Margaery spoke up then, but Joffrey raised a hand, silencing her, eyes never leaving Sansa's.

"Answer me."

"Yes, Your Grace. He...he does his duty."

"He rapes you," Joffrey corrected, grinning gleefully. "Every night. Say it."

"He rapes me," Sansa repeated dutifully, not meeting her king's eyes, wondering what would happen to her if she killed him now, in front of so many witnesses.

She saw Prince Oberyn Martell, sitting with his paramour, as her eyes flitted from face to face, watching her intently, as he had when he had dined with them just a few nights earlier.

She would use the fork on his plate. Stab it into Joffrey's neck, and watch the fevered light die in his eyes.

The Kingsguard wouldn't even have time to stop her; he was standing so close now.

"Mayhap you don't like the idea of having a dwarven babe," Joffrey mused then. "I've told you the story of how my uncle ripped through my grandmother. Maybe you'll have a dwarven babe too, if he gives you a child, and a Lannister will finally kill you." His eyes sparkled. "Do you wash out your cunt every night, so his seed won't take?"

Sansa shook her head, eyes wide. "No, Your Grace. I would never-"

Joffrey giggled again. "Maybe someone else could give you a Lannister babe. Maybe you should beg your king to do it himself. At least then you wouldn't birth a dwarf."

Sansa glanced at the fork again, wondered if anyone would stop her if she stabbed it into her own neck.

"To ask such a thing of Your Grace would be presumptuous," Sansa pointed out primly. "I would never take advantage of Your Grace in such a way."

Joffrey's eyes flashed in annoyance, before he waved a hand dismissively. "Well, in any case, you'll have a Lannister babe eventually. And my queen will likely have a son long before that."

Margaery stood, eyes sparkling with love. Sansa thought that perhaps it was the wine in her cup. "I pray daily to the gods for it, my love," she promised coolly, "For I know my duty to my husband."

Joffrey grinned, reaching forward and grabbing Sansa by the chin. "You see? You Starks, for all your talk of honor, you don't know a thing about duty. Your father committed treason against me. Your brother married some whore instead of a Frey; that's why they killed him, did you know? And you. You're supposed to give birth to Lannister babes to sit in Winterfell, and you haven't done your duty, Sansa."

Sansa swallowed, didn't dare to pull away. "I...I will try harder, Your Grace, as I told my husband today."

A lie, but she was getting better at those, she thought.

Hoped.

Joffrey laughed, looping an arm through Queen Margaery's when she reached for him and releasing Sansa. Sansa did not even know when Margaery had moved to stand so close to them.

"Yes, do that," he told her. "Maybe I'll pay you a visit if you don't."

"Oh, this is my favorite part!" Margaery cried gaily then, pointing to the actors who stood silently on the stage, waiting for their king's cue to continue, with a wide smile. "Oh, my love, you must watch."

Joffrey smirked at her. "If my lady insists," he said, guiding her back to their seats, and Sansa breathed a sigh of relief, even though it was short lived.

On the stage, the woman shook herself, remembering her part, and fell to the ground. Roses were strewn over her body; thorns pierced her skin, the king no doubt demanding the play to be as genuine as possible.

A nymph of the woods, being choked to death by thorns. Beauty in horrific death.

Joffrey laughed, clapping his hands together loudly, until the rest of the captive audience did so as well, though perhaps with less enthusiasm.

Save for Margaery, who clapped louder than anyone, her husband included, a secret smile on her face that Sansa couldn't read at all.

Chapter Text

There were times that Sansa spent not locked away in the Red Keep and not walking through the gardens of King's Landing which the new Queen's family seemed to have adopted.

She knew that the Queen Mother would prefer to keep her locked away in the Red Keep at all times, and no doubt Joffrey would prefer to keep her in the Black Cells, but her lord husband and, surprisingly, Lord Tywin seemed to agree that this was not wise. There were those who still loved the Starks, and Westeros needed proof that their last Stark was alive, after all, and so, occasionally, Sansa was allowed out, with an armed escort and a servant, of course.

Before, when Princess Myrcella was still in King's Landing, before she had been sent to Dorne and the Queen had taken even more liberties with her toment of Sansa as a result, Sansa had often travelled with the girl into the city, or through the gardens.

She had much more freedom as a lady of the Princess' entourage than she now had, but she found that it was still very much worth it.

She had managed to avoid her husband since that fateful day when his father had taken him to task for not filling her with child. Shae was surprisingly helpful in that regard; Sansa would have thought the woman would have encouraged her to speak with him, to be reassured that he meant her no harm, but she had not done so once.

Today had been another opportunity to avoid her husband, one that Sansa had gladly taken, leaving before he had woken from his place on the sofa, a bottle of wine at his feet, and asking Shae to help her ready herself.

Her favorite dress, the pink one, had to be taken in.

Shae had held it together with pins, for Sansa had nothing else that fit better, just now.

Shae had not gone with her, however, for she had other duties within the Keep, and so Sansa had gone accompanied by one of the Tyrell handmaids, and she felt on edge around the other girl, who, beyond a few pleasantries, was largely silent.

They walked down the streets of King's Landing, and Sansa passed out alms to the poor, though she was painfully aware of the fact that she had far fewer of those now than she had in the past.

She did not know how far she walked before she came across Oberyn Martell.

She had not meant to traverse this part of King's Landing, on the outer edge of Flea Bottom, though she supposed that her daydreaming had taken some part in that.

He was leaving the whorehouse that was commonly known to belong to Lord Baelish, a cool smile on his face and a spring in his step as he walked, not a trace of guilt in him.

Sansa flushed, wondering if she should move to the opposite side of the road and hearing the Tyrell lady tut behind her in disapproval.

She wondered what Ellaria thought of this, for surely she must have known, given that Oberyn had a reputation for such things.

Did she pine away in their chambers, wondering what she had done to displease her lover, that he might find pleasure in another? Or did her legendary Dornish fire come forth when he returned to their chambers, demanding an explanation? Or perhaps she truly didn't care, as the Dornish were rumored not to, for she had another lover of her own.

Sansa wondered how that was possible, when the rest of Westeros took such matters so importantly.

She glanced up, and Prince Oberyn was standing right in front of her, a look on his face that she did not wish to interpret.

"Lady Sansa," he said, voice deep and somehow sympathetic, and Sansa flinched away from the sound instinctively.

"Prince Oberyn," she said lightly, not meeting his eyes and walking a bit faster, nonplussed when he began to walk faster as well, to catch up with her.

"How our little king treated you yesterday was disgraceful," Oberyn said then, and Sansa's eyes widened as she glanced back at her armed guard. Too far away to hear, but close enough to make her nervous as to their presence when others insulted the king.

More often than not, she was the one to pay for such things.

"Lady Rosamund," Sansa spoke up then, "Go and see that our escorts are well from the long journey."

Oberyn raised a brow, but Lady Rosamund seemed more than happy to flee, sending Oberyn an untrusting look.

"You cannot say such things," Sansa reprimanded softly, once they were more or less alone. "It is treason to question the king."

Oberyn sent her a rougish grin. "Is it?"

Something about the way he said those words made her flush. "Prince Oberyn-"

Prince Oberyn stepped forward, until he was standing so close that she could feel the heat from his body.

She took a step back, instinctively.

"Tell me truly, Lady Sansa, do you want to leave this place?" She stared at him. "The Lannisters can't keep you trapped here forever. In Dorne, we do not hurt little girls for sport. I think you would be much happier, there."

Sansa Stark of a year ago would have taken that offer. She was not even sure that she now would not take it. She wanted nothing more than to leave this horrid place, to escape King's Landing with whomever offered first.

But Dorne was in the south, and she did not want to escape only to go further from her homeland than she was now. Her dreams of late were filled with images of Winterfell, of home, and she knew that, if she ever left King's Landing, there was only one place that she could go.

And she had learned, in the past year that everyone wanted something; the Prince of Dorne would not offer refuge to the heir of Winterfell unless he wanted something out of it.

"I..." she stared at Prince Oberyn for a long, searching moment, before forcing a smile. “I am quite as content here as I think I would be anywhere, Prince Oberyn, though you are most kind to make such an offer."

Prince Oberyn looked shocked by the response, and then smiled sadly, cocking his head at her. "When you are lying, Lady Sansa, you betray the truth in your eyes. You would do best not to look at others then. Even had I not witnessed proof that you are unhappy here, your eyes give you away. You hate it here perhaps more than I."

Sansa felt her throat close with a sudden nervousness. "Prince Oberyn-"

"I have no wish to bring you harm, Lady Sansa," he interrupted, voice gentler even than her lord husband's, than Margaery's. "We in Dorne..."

"King's Landing is not Dorne," Sansa interrupted, surprised at her boldness. "I cannot imagine such a place."

She met his eyes, then.

Prince Oberyn nodded. "My sister, Elia, lived here for many years," he said, clasping his hands behind his back. "She was...so fiery, my dear sister, but so kind. I did not like the thought of her living here amongst the dragons. She was changed by them. Cowed, I think, though I only had the proof of this in her letters to me. And she died here." He looked up, met Sansa's eyes. "Your brothers are gone, sweet one, but I do not think that they would want you to die here, amongst the lions."

And really, what other choice did she have now? Perhaps it would be better to die amongst vipers, rather than lions.

Sansa felt breathless as she whispered, "Yes."

He lifted a brow. "Yes?"

"Yes, perhaps I would like to see Dorne," Sansa whispered, her voice shaking, and she hoped he understood the weight of her decision on her, "For a little. It won't be my home, though," she glanced around, seeing Lady Rosamund walking back towards them, "Just as King's Landing has never been."

Oberyn grinned at her. "I see that you have not lost your fieriness, Lady Stark."

She didn't smile. "It's Lady Sansa, Prince Oberyn," she corrected mildly. "Just Sansa."

Chapter Text

"Lady Sansa," Margaery breathed, in some surprise, coming to an abrupt halt and nearly causing her ladies to walk into her from behind.

Sansa stiffened, coming to a stop as well. "Your Grace," she said finally, after a long pause during which Margaery was worried the other girl would say nothing to her at all. She curtseyed lowly, not meeting Margaery's eyes.

Despite Sansa's words to her, Margaery still found herself disappointed. There had been a time when Sansa felt safe enough around her to simply call her Margaery, rather than by a title. When she had considered Margaery enough of a friend.

She had known beforehand at every instance where she had been forced to interact with Sansa since the wedding, knowing that her newfound place at Joffrey's side could hardly be taken well by the girl.

And, it could be admitted, in the safety of Margaery's thoughts, that there was a part of her that did not want to speak with Sansa, did not want to interact with her, seeing the anger smoldering just beneath the girl's surface, the betrayal.

Perhaps it was cowardly, but Margaery had never known herself to be particularly brave, not in the way that others counted bravery.

And yet, here she was, standing before Margaery with that look of recrimination that was slowly changing into one of bemusement as Margaery continued to stare at her in silence.

Margaery cleared her throat, glancing away first, gesturing for Sansa to stand. There were no platitudes today, no words that Sansa need not bow before her.

Margaery was her queen now, after all, and she suspected that Sansa would not have listened to such words, anyway.

"And where are you going in such a hurry, my lady?" she asked sweetly, ignoring the titters from her ladies behind her.

Sansa flushed. "I...to the library, Your Grace. Forgive me, might I continue?"

Margaery bit back a sigh. "Of course, Lady Sansa."

Another time, she might have invited Sansa to come with her as she walked, but she did not today, for she suspected that neither of them would enjoy the walk, nor would Sansa enjoy the outcome.

"Come along then, girls," she told her ladies, lifting her chin and passing Sansa as the girl remained in her curtsey to the side of the hall, doing her best to look as small as possible. "We shall leave the Lady Sansa to her devices."

Margaery Tyrell was not supposed to like Sansa Stark. The girl was naive and still put her hope in fairy tales, and did not understand that those who called themselves her friends were only so because it was convienent for them.

Margaery had only gotten close to Sansa because she was the only other young lady at Court near to Margaery in age, and such was expected of her, and because she knew that her family was thinking of a connection of a more permanent nature with the last heir of Winterfell.

Yet she had seen a secret sadness in Sansa Stark's eyes, in those early days when she had attempted to know the other girl, when Sansa had attempted to push her away, and that had drawn Margaery to her, despite her knowing that it should not.

And, like all people drawn to what they could not have, Margaery had pushed her away with one hand while reaching for her with the other.

She suddenly found herself even less enthusiastic about going to meet with the Queen Mother, per the woman's request. She was not sure that she could now play the part as well as she had been expecting to do so.

The long, winding walk the rest of the way to the Queen Mother's chambers was undertaken largely in silence, her ladies seeming to realize her sudden mood, though she was glad that they did not question her on it.

She might have taken the opportunity to pretend herself sick and return to her chambers, just so that she did not have to play games with her new goodmother this morning.

A member of the Kingsguard stood outside the Queen Mother's chambers when they arrived, leaning against the door and dozing softly.

Margaery cleared her throat subtly.

The Kingsguard - not Jaime Lannister today, and Margaery confessed herself rather surprised at that - stared at her with an almost bleary expression. "Your Grace?"

"The Queen Mother requested my presence," Margaery told the guard sweetly. "I believe she had some matter that she wished to speak of?"

The guard gave her a cursory glance, and then dipped his head. "I will go and see if Her Grace is ready for you."

Margaery did not let her smile slip until he had gone into the Queen Mother's chambers and closed the door behind him.

If Cersei thought that she could demand her new queen's presence at her whim, and then leave her waiting in the hall like some servant, she was mistaken.

A moment later, the door opened, and the guard bowed lowly. "Her Grace will recieve you now," he told her calmly, and Margaery forced her smile to return.

"Thank you," she said, sweeping into the Queen Mother's chambers alongside her ladies.

The door swung shut behind them, a rather ominous sound. Margaery could not shake the feeling that she was going to her own execution, rather than a meeting with her goodmother.

The Queen Mother's chambers had been...moved, after the marriage of Margaery and Joffrey. Margaery now resided in Cersei's old chambers, though she spent most of her nights in Joffrey's, for, while her husband did have a voracious appetite in the night, she also found herself uncomfortable sleeping in the same rooms where Cersei Lannister had once slept.

She hoped that Cersei felt just as uncomfortable in her much smaller chambers here. They certainly looked far less appealing.

Cersei was standing before a table ladden with food, dressed in a simple red dress with a lion embriodered on the bosom, her hands clasped together in front of her.

If Margaery didn't know that the Queen Mother was completely incapable of such an emotion, she might even say that Cersei was nervous.

That, in turn, made Margaery very nervous indeed.

"Your Grace," Cersei said, in a voice that hid her disdain for the young woman before her, "I thought we might speak while we broke our fast?" she gestured to the table, sitting just in the corner of her chambers.

Margaery gave her a dimpled smile. "I was hoping that you would suggest that," she confessed. "I am quite famished."

Cersei's smile was frozen on her face as she moved to sit, and then seemed to remember that she was not the highest ranking woman in the room any longer, and must first wait for Margaery to sit.

Margaery did so, slowly brushing out her rose covered gown and gesturing for her ladies to sit as well, a subtle smile on her face when she noticed that, once they had all sat, including the Queen Mother, they seemed to take up far more of the little room than she had first thought.

She was not above such petty vengeances, when they were undertaken in the safety of Margaery's own mind.

Cersei's servant moved forward to begin pouring their drinks, hands almost quivering as she did so, and Margaery thanked the girl, prompting her ladies to do the same as the serving girl moved back into the shadows.

She introduced her ladies to the queen, who eyed them with clear irritation, no doubt annoyed that so many of them had come at her invitation to Margaery, but smiled all the same.

They were all Tyrell ladies, and thus she had no reason to pretend to befriend any of them. Margaery knew that she had already given up on that account some time ago.

Her ladies were largely silent as they began to pile their food onto their plates, and, after a moment's hesitation during which she wondered if Cersei was foolish enough to poison them all in her own chambers, Margaery began to do the same.

Sweet cakes and rolls and slices of meat, along with goat's milk, made up the majority of the meal.

Margaery speared a piece of meat with her fork, taking a bite and then turning to Cersei with a smile. "This is very good," she told the older woman. "The cook is to commended."

Cersei dipped her head. "I am sure that a servant might pass along the message."

Margaery took another bite of a sweet roll before eyeing the jug filled with goat's milk in the center of the table.

"Oh, but we should have some wine brought," Margaery said, voice infused with bemused sweetness. "I know that it is too early in the day for my ladies and I to fully enjoy it, but you need not deprieve yourself on our accounts."

Cersei's smile was brittle as she dipped her head. "I am quite fine without it this morning," she told the other woman. "But you are most kind to think of me."

"Nonsense," Margaery said, gesturing to Cersei's serving girl. "Go to the kitchens and find the Queen Mother some of the finest wine you can," she instructed the girl, who glanced from her to Cersei with wide eyes, before curtseying and hurrying out the door.

Margaery bit back a half-smirk, turning to Cersei once more. "Now, I hope you do not take offense at my presumption, but I was wondering what it was you wished to speak with me about?"

Cersei glanced at the ladies surrounding them, and then pursed her lips. "I hope that you were not kept in angst, over such curiosity."

Margaery shook her head, smiling widely. "I confess myself much too preoccupied with the demands of my new position to remain fixed on one thought for very long, no matter how troubling."

Something about those words made Cersei smile, a real smile that had Margaery fighting back a shiver. "The trials of a queen."

"The trials of a queen," Margaery repeated, with a smirk. "My ladies can certainly attest to that."

Cersei sent an interested look at her ladies, that time, and seemed about to say something else, when the door opened and her serving girl returned from the kitchens with a jug of wine in her hands.

One of Margaery's ladies, Reanna, laughed softly. "Did you run all of the way from the kitchens, my dear girl?" she asked the serving girl, as she hurried forward to refill the Queen Mother's cup.

Cersei's smile was brittle as she took her first sip of wine.

Margaery wondered who had been punished and how, for moving the Queen Mother so close to the kitchens that her serving girl could be there and back so quickly, and found herself rather pitying them.

"Would any of your ladyships like some?" Cersei's serving girl asked finally, after an awkward pause in which she glanced at her mistress helplessly.

Margaery's ladies declined, as did Margaery, sending the girl a knowing smile. "No, but I do thank you for your efforts, my dear. I am afraid it is simply too early for my ladies and myself."

Cersei set down her wine glass with a flourish that almost could have been considered a slam.

Her serving girl hurried back into the shadows.

"As to what I wished to speak with you about," she said then, clearing her throat until she seemed certain that she had Margaery's attentions.

She need not have worried; she had never lost them.

"Ah, yes of course," Margaery said with a smile. "Do pray continue."

“There are several matters that I wish to discuss with you,” Cersei murmured. “The first being what happened in the throne room the other day. I wish to apologize – I did not know that you had already proposed a destination for the scraps of the wedding feast.”

Margaery blinked, hiding her real surprise. “Oh,” she said, chewing on her lower lip. Well, that is quite easily forgiven, for I too did not know of your intentions for the food. I only wish...Well, I only wish that they had not gone to such waste.”

“You do not approve of Joffrey’s decision concerning that event?” Cersei said, leaning forward with all of the subtlety of a bloodhound chasing a scent.

Margaery pursed her lips. “It is not that, for I have found myself ever unable to disagree with any of His Grace’s decisions. He is a most wise ruler. I only meant that I have a great desire to help the smallfolk of King’s Landing, ever since learning of how they nearly starved during the Battle of Blackwater Bay. I wish that they might have had more kindness bestowed on them from the very beginning, that I had been here earlier to help them in that regard, for I care so deeply for their woes. But...” she glanced up at Cersei through hooded eyes. “You said that there was another matter.”

“Ah, yes.” Cersei blinked, seeming almost bewildered by Margaery’s speech. Margaery wondered if kindness to anyone besides herself had simply never occurred to her, as it had not to her son.

"I...confess myself concerned for you, my dear, as any new goodmother might be," Cersei said, in that honeyed voice that might have once worked on Sansa Stark, but that Cersei was foolish to believe would work on anyone else. "My son the King is not exactly...Well; I hope that you are settling in to your new position as queen without many troubles."

Of course that was what Cersei had summoned her here for. She had been making veiled attempts to learn what she could since the day of their wedding, and even before then, about Margaery and her relationship with Joffrey.

Margaery had learned from one of her servants that Cersei had even attempted to bribe the girl, and, when that had not worked, threatened her, into telling what the bed sheets had looked like on the morning after their wedding.

And it had not even been the first time that Cersei had attempted to turn Margaery's loyal ladies against her. The women in the room with them now could all attest to such.

She had let her poor serving girl send them along, of course, because there was nothing that Margaery had to hide. And, after all, the Small Council would ask for them eventually.

Cersei's expression had been unfailingly pinched, ever since.

"His Grace has always been kind to me," Margaery lied winningly, patting the queen mother's arm, wondering if the Queen Mother was aware of her own transparency in repeating these questions so many times. Likely not. "My knight in shining armor. I have no complaints."

"He treated the Stark girl like a princess too, in the beginning," Cersei said, through a tight smile, snatching her arm away.

Margaery's smile was wide and bright. "I am not Sansa Stark, Goodmother."

Cersei gave her a long, searching look. "No, you are not," she agreed finally. "Who are you, Lady Margaery?"

Margaery bit back an even brighter smile. "I hope to be a loving and dutiful wife to my new husband," she said serenely, "And a good and kind queen."

Cersei's expression flickered; she was not as good at hiding her true emotions as Margaery had learned to become. Not as good as she thought that she was. "I am sure that you will be, Lady Margaery, for as long as you are queen."

Margaery leaned forward, intimating secrecy though her ladies sat all around them. "It is so good to hear you say so, Goodmother," she told the woman, smiling nervously. "I want so very much to have your approval in all things, for you are so important to my husband the King, and I wish to make you as important to myself, as well."

Cersei lifted her glass of wine in a mock toast. "To family, then," she said coolly, and Margaery lifted her glass of goat's milk, as well.

"To family," she agreed, smiling as their glasses clinked together. "May it always be counted on."

Chapter Text

She had told the Queen that she was going to the library.

A lie, and Sansa, unlike most in King's Landing she knew, felt something like guilt for saying it, but she had been afraid that, had she not made up such an excuse, Margaery would have insisted that she follow her, or simply perhaps spoken to her longer, and Sansa could not bear such a thought.

It was only after the lie had sprung and Margaery had already been on her way that Sansa considered what she should do with her time, instead.

She had not taken to stories, however, not since Joffrey had cut her father's head off and she had realized that life truly wasn't like the songs, that it never could have been, and that all of her stories had lied to her so cruelly.

But she could not return to her quarters with Lord Tyrion. He had not yet managed to sit her down since the horrible tale of his meeting with his father had spread throughout the Keep, and Sansa had no intention of giving him the opportunity to do so.

She felt paranoid, pretending to go to sleep earlier now, keeping her eyes closed and hardly daring to breathe when he entered their chambers in the evenings, her back turned to him, and waking early in the mornings, bidding Shae to dress her hurriedly that she might avoid her lord husband.

It had not been easy, avoiding him so completely, though she suspected that he was also allowing her to do so, no more ready to speak over what they must than she.

And Sansa had no desire to speak of it at all.

Even if she knew that her lord husband would not touch her in such a way, as he had once promised, she did not want to give him the opportunity to break her trust, not if she could help it. Not when Joffrey and Lord Tywin breathed down his neck at every second.

And if that meant avoiding him for the rest of the duration of their marriage, then Sansa was quite content to do so.

She sighed, forcing herself to turn her thoughts on better things.

If she could avoid her husband for much longer, she might not have to worry about having the conversation ever.

She would not be remaining in King's Landing until she died, she now knew.

For the first time in a long time, there was hope, even if it was an unknown hope, one that could be just as bad as here.

But then Sansa reminded herself that nothing was just as bad as here. Dorne would be her safe haven, for however long she needed to be there.

Sansa smiled, and then looked up, noticing the eyes of a servant boy on her, and quickly hid the expression, knowing it would only cause her trouble.

She felt like a child with a secret, or perhaps a criminal with understanding of a crime yet to take place, carrying the secret knowledge of Oberyn's proposition to her with an excitement and wariness that had not taken hold in her since her father had once told her that he intended that she and her sister should return to Winterfell, without her ever having married Joffrey.

That thought was somewhat sobering, but Sansa vowed to herself that she would not make the same mistake of revealing the secret to anyone, before they were gone long from here.

She would miss Shae, she thought, and maybe Margaery, and perhaps young Tommen.

Dorne, she had been told, was lovely this time of year, and she hoped that that would make up for it.

"You're smiling today," a voice that instantly made the smile fall from Sansa's face called out to her, and Sansa froze, not daring to turn around, perhaps in the hopes that she had merely imagined it.

Joffrey siddled up behind her, his two Kingsguard hanging back in silence, and Sansa closed her eyes, biting back the sigh that wanted to spring forth.

She suddenly found herself feeling rather foolish, that she had allowed Margaery to go on without her, instead of taking the woman's clear intentions for peace between them.

"Your Grace," she murmured, finally turning to him, and forcing a welcoming smile. "Indeed, I am."

"Practically glowing," Joffrey drawled, reaching out and running the backs of his knuckles across her cheek.

Sansa reminded herself that she was not a rabid dog, and therefore could not bite his fingers. "Thank you, Your Grace. Now if Your Grace would be so kind-"

"Are we to expect a happy announcement from my uncle soon?" Joffrey asked, lips twitching in clear amusement.

Sansa blinked at him in confusion, and Joffrey leaned forward, though he did not lower his voice as he asked, "Has he finally put a child in you, then?"

Sansa found herself blushing crimson. "No, Your Grace. I...that was not..."

Joffrey smirked, hand going down to rest over her clothed abdomen, and Sansa felt her breath hitching in fear. "Well, have you given any thought to what Lannister will give you a child, Lady Sansa?" he grinned, his putrid breath nearly making her gag. "Would you like me to more than he? I know that you love me so deeply, after all."

Sansa swallowed hard, finding her mouth suddenly wollen.

"Well?" he asked, pinching her, and then the words came.

"I would think that Your Grace would be more concerned with putting a child in your own wife's belly, rather than in mine," Sansa said carefully, sending a silent apology to Margaery in her mind.

Joffrey's face darkened. "You little bitch!" he snapped, and then called to Ser Meryn.

And why was it always Ser Meryn walking with him, Sansa thought, in some despair.

She knew that all of the Kingsguard were obligated to follow their king's commands, though when it came to Sansa, they did so with varying emotions, some even seeming apologetic with their actions.

But Ser Meryn seemed to derive much pleasure from his abuse of Sansa, much more than the simple carrying out of his king's orders would demand.

"Lady Sansa has insulted her king, Ser Meryn," Joffrey said, and he was nearly shouting now. "She must be punished."

Ser Meryn did not hesitate, and Sansa cried out more because it was expected of her than because of the actual pain, by now, as the flats of his knuckles smacked against her unbroken skin.

Joffrey giggled. "Where's your lord husband now, Lady Sansa? I see there's only me."

Sansa sucked in a ragged breath, afraid that she was about to cry.

Joffrey did not deserve her tears, she reminded herself, lifting her chin defiantly and preparing herself for the beating she knew was still to come.

"Your Grace."

She glanced up, wondering who would have the opportunity to view Sansa's shaming today, only to blink in surprise as her lord husband approached them, as though Joffrey's mentioning him had somehow caused him to appear.

She had not thought she would be relieved to see him, the next time she did.

No, no, he mustn't draw attention to himself like this. If he did, then Joffrey would become annoyed with him again, as he had at the wedding, when her lord husband had proved himself no more immune to Joffrey's torments than anyone.

"Uncle," Joffrey looked intrigued, rather than annoyed, which made Sansa feel rather more sick than the stinging slap had, even as she reached up to wipe at her cheek.

Thankfully, her hand did not come away wet.

Her husband glanced at her, his eyes narrowing with a knowing look as he turned back to the king, giving his nephew a defferential little bow that she knew he would avoid if he thought he could.

"Your Grace," he said stiffly, "I wonder if I might borrow my lady wife just now? There is...something which I need to discuss with her."

Joffrey glanced between them, before frowning. "No," he snapped irritably, "It's not all right. I was still punishing her. She disrespected me."

Her husband frowned, and, despite herself, Sansa felt herself shiver, reaching up to pull her wrap more tightly around her thin shoulders. "Well," he said finally, thoughtfully, "I do believe that what I mean to discuss with her will be far more punishing than any beating you might give her. And, indeed, that she is my lady wife now, and any...disciplining she needs will come from me, not you."

For a moment, Sansa thought that Joffrey would rail and stomp his feet and order Ser Meryn to slap her husband as well, and she held her breath.

But Joffrey surprised her by waving a hand, annoyance still clear on his face, but something else rather like bored amusement there as well.

Amusement was always dangerous, from someone like Joffrey.

Sansa realized then that they had observers, a few nobles still milling about the hall because they had recognized the chance for another Sansa beating, she supposed, and who were making no efforts to hide thier observation.

Joffrey, King or not, did not want to dispute her lord husband's claim to Sansa in front of so many people, even if they all knew him for the sadist he was.

"Very well, uncle," Joffrey said, glancing sideways at Sansa, and she realized then what had him so amused as his eyes slid down to her flat stomach. "See to her as you see fit."

Sansa felt a thrill of terror then, for surely he would come to watch them through some window in their bedchambers, wanting to know what sort of "punishment" her lord husband had devised for her, and they would be found out, and her lord husband would be punished for his lies.

But Lord Tyrion held out his arm to her with a grim expression on his face, and Sansa took it daintily, daring to breathe again for the first time as they turned their backs on Joffrey and walked away.

Behind them, she could hear Joffrey muttering something to Ser Meryn about finding his queen "this instant," and then the sound of Ser Meryn's boots, marching steadfastly in the other direction.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

It was not until they had returned to their chambers and the door had shut behind them that either spoke, and then it was for Sansa to ask innocently, "Has your council meeting let out early today?"

Tyrion sighed, scrubbing at his face and sinking down onto the sofa, reaching for his nearest bottle of brandy, conveniently sitting on the table before him, despite her disapproving look. "There was no council meeting today." He sent her a rather forced smile. "All's well with the realm, at least until tomorrow. Lady Sansa..."

Sansa was struck with the rather overwhelming urge to sit down, seeing the look in his eyes. Instead, she asked, "Perhaps we should ask Shae to send out for some food?"

Her husband sighed again. "Lady Sansa, there is a matter that I believe we need to speak about."

She no longer felt very hungry. "I..."

"And I do believe you know what matter I'm referring to," her husband said quietly, expression gentle as he held out one hand to her, as though trying to soothe a frightened animal.

Sansa straightened her back and lifted her chin. "Perhaps you should simply say it, my lord."

Chapter Text

There were very few times when a queen was ever alone. She always had about her ladies, to serve her and be companions to her throughout her days, and one of whom often slept at the foot of her bed at night with a knife, to protect her from attackers or to witness if the queen attempted such a thing as adultery.

And, beyond them, she had a member of the Kingsguard assigned to her, usually one of great honor and gallantry whom she might be familiar with.

And, in the times when she had neither about her, she had the King.

So to find herself suddenly alone was a phenomenon that a queen rarely experienced, and which left Margaery both relieved and wary, for she could not dispel the vague fear that Cersei might stupidly attempt to kill her, despite the other's recent overtures of friendship.

She had found herself alone in a narrow and dark corridor, lost in her own thoughts, and she paused, her breaths sounding loud in the silence of the narrow hall, but not alone.

"Your Grace," Lord Varys appeared suddenly out of the shadows and bowed lowly to her, and Margaery sent him a stunning smile.

"Lord Varys. To what do I owe this meeting?" she asked, and he lifted a brow.

"You do not believe that we have merely run into each other coincidentally, each going our separate ways, in an abandoned corridor of the Red Keep where none will overhear us?"

Margaery just smiled.

He sighed. "Your Grace is a most shrewd woman. Unlike some of her predecessors."

Margaery bit back a laugh, and then leaned forward, taking his hands in her own. "I would like to thank you for...that bit of service you did for me, recently. I understand that your interests do not lie directly in line with those of House Tyrell."

"I serve the realm," Lord Varys responded evenly.

Margaery dipped her head. "Indeed. And you are a fine Master of Whispers."

He smiled, stepping slightly out of the way. "You will find in your young life, Your Grace that flattery does not work on men of my...condition."

Margaery smiled sympathetically. "Of course. Then I will speak plainly, Lord Varys. I wish to know that, in the future, I may be assured of...further services. And the Lannisters are not the only ones who pay their debts, as Prince Martell is so fond of saying."

Varys sent her a shrewd look. "I assume you speak to the matter of the food from the wedding."

She smiled. "Indeed."

"That was nothing," he assured. "Merely an attempt to help the starving smallfolk of Flea Bottom. I have little sparrows who took question with the lack of food, as well."

Margaery took his hands in hers, and Varys stared down at their entwined fingers, his expression unreadable. "I wish to thank you all the same, on the behalf of the smallfolk, who are very dear to me. I do believe you have done more for them than anyone can be led to believe."

Varys pulled his hands away. "Is there another duty you require of me?"

Margaery's smile widened. She opened her mouth to speak, and-

"Margaery!" Loras called, coming out of nowhere and grabbing her by the arm. "I've been looking everywhere for you. I-" He blinked, seeming to notice Lord Varys for the first time. Margaery supposed that the Spider had a way of hiding in the shadows; it was why he was where he was. "Lord Varys. I did not see you there," he said, voice far more stiff, now.

Lord Varys bowed. "I shall leave Your Grace with your most devoted brother," he informed the Queen.

Margaery smiled. "Perhaps we might continue our conversation another time, then?" she asked sweetly.

Lord Varys nodded. "Perhaps, Your Grace."

And then, with a blink, he was gone into the shadows once more.

"Loras," Margaery scolded, taking her brother's arm, "That was very rude."

Loras rolled his eyes. "The Spider can speak to you any time. I haven't spoken to you in far too long."

Margaery gave him a long look. "You were guarding me just this morning. You've been guarding me since the wedding. If you aren't more careful with the Kingsguard roster, someone will notice. Most likely the Lord Commander who makes these rosters."

Loras did not seem concerned by this. "Yes, but we haven't talked in all of those times," he said irritably. "You've been far too...preoccupied."

Margaery raised a brow, turning and leaning against the bannister behind her. "Very well, brother mine. What do you wish to talk about? I have..." she glanced around, and then remembered that there were no windows, here. "Very little time before I am missed, I am sure."

Loras blinked at her. "Oh? And how did your little lunch with Cersei go?"

Margaery smiled brightly. "As well as I expected it to. She is a most...devoted woman, to her children."

Loras didn't look amused. "She's a bitch," he muttered resentfully.

"You only say that because she almost became your goodsister," Margaery chided half-heartedly. And then, in a lower voice, "You should be more careful, Loras. The walls have ears everywhere in King's Landing, but especially about the Spider. We are dearest friends with the Lannisters now, since the Battle of Blackwater."

He lifted a brow. "Truly? I thought you would have charmed even him by now. You spoke for more than a few moments, after all."

Margaery laughed; she wondered if Loras could hear the hollowness of it, for his next question was far removed from their current conversation.

"How is marriage treating you these days?" Loras asked, smirking at her, but she could hear the underlying concern in his voice.

She knew that he had been meaning to ask this question from the moment of her marriage, the first time he could get her alone.

Margaery let out a soft sound, standing from where she leaned against the rail and beginning to walk once more. "Exhaustingly."

"Margaery," Loras hissed, moving forward to take her arm again and letting him lead her down the rest of the narrow hall, into the harsh sunlight of one of the Red Keep's covered gardens. "Does he hurt you?"

Margaery smiled at her brother. "It's fine, Loras. Let it go."

Instead of doing so, Loras lurched to his feet. "I'll kill that little bastard," he muttered, reaching for his sword.

Margaery put a hand on his arm, glancing around them surreptitiously. "That is treason, brother," she hissed at him. "Please. Let it be."

He stared at her. "You are my sister. I won't allow him to defile you like that, or the Lannisters to torment you as they do Sansa Stark. I..."

She smiled sweetly, stepping forward and letting him pull her into an embrace, sword hand still awkwardly holding the sword. She leaned forward, until her lips were touching his ear, and whispered, "I can handle one little boy."

He pulled back, blinking at her. "And can you see the future?"

She smiled, reaching out and brushing back some of his curls. "Sometimes, brother, sometimes."

They continued walking then, arm in arm, as they used to in Highgarden, before the troubles of the war had hit, and Margaery reached out, plucking a Lion's Head from the flowers as they passed it.

"No," she said suddenly, and her brother glanced at her as she began to pluck the petals from the flower, watching as they fell to the ground at her feet and she walked over them.

"No?"

"No, he doesn't hurt me," Margaery supplied. "He...enjoys hurting things, in front of me, I think."

She felt Loras' arms tighten around her and hurried on, "And...he likes to watch me. But he doesn't..." she glanced up at her brother. "He hasn't touched me, not once, since we've been wed. Not...in any way that could lead to pain. He is not a fool, and has been a most considerate husband." She gave him a knowing look. "You stood outside our chambers on our wedding night, dear brother, and every night since. You know that nothing that should not have happened took place."

Loras grimaced. "Yes," he finally admitted, and Margaery smiled.

"There, you see?" Had her brother been watching her more closely, he might have seen the lie in her eyes but, as it was, he was placated with what he wished to hear.

"I still don't like that you must be married to him at all," he muttered petulantly, and Margaery bit back a laugh as the last petal fell to the ground.

"Well," she said, "That makes two of us."

Chapter Text

"Sansa," her husband said quietly, "Please speak to me."

Sansa moved the cyvasse piece, not meeting his eyes. "I do not see that there is anything to say, my lord. You have made yourself most clear, and, as your dutiful wife, there is no complaint that I can make, so I do not see that I need say anything. I am most grateful that you have...suffered in silence for this long."

Tyrion pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing back from the game of cyvasse. "You understand why I suggested it, I hope?"

Sansa bit her lip. "Every wife must endeavour to give her husband a child, of course, and especially a son-"

"Sansa."

"It is only my duty to do as my husband asks of me now-"

"Sansa."

She glanced up, finally meeting his eyes. "Yes?"

Tyrion flinched at her tone. "If I don't give you a child, and believe me, I am wont to do so myself, my father and Joffrey will find other, new horrible ways to torment you. I only suggest this now because Joffrey is not above doing horrible things to women-"

"You only suggest this now because now you must face a bit of that torment yourself," Sansa interrupted acidly. "Because now, there is trouble in it for you."

He reached out to take her hands, but Sansa pulled away, glaring at him scorchingly. "Would you like me to stop arguing with you and to take off my clothes, my lord? I can do it myself."

Her husband flinched again, sighed, pulled his hands back. "That is not it at all, Lady Sansa," he said finally, voice still, somehow, gentle. "I only wish to protect you. A Lannister baby will protect you. Proof that we...That we are a true marriage will protect you. My father-"

"Wants nothing more than to have a Stark son to claim Winterfell and the North, and then he'll have no more need of me," Sansa interrupted coolly. "Living or otherwise."

Her husband blinked at her, and Sansa felt suddenly self-conscious. "I'm not just a stupid little girl, like I was when I first came here," she snapped at him. "I do understand what my brother's death means. Why, suddenly, everyone was so quick to wed me."

There was less trouble in this situation for Sansa, now, than there was for her lord husband. Prince Oberyn would take her from here, she felt sure, before she could be impregnated by a Lannister.

He had to.

He would take her to Dorne the moment he could find the opportunity to leave this horrible place, and she must be ready at any moment, for he had not told her more than that, when he would leave.

Tyrion grimaced. "Of course. I didn't mean to suggest-"

The door slammed open then, and Shae stepped into the room, holding a tray full of food that made Sansa ill just to look upon it. Her fiersome glare found Tyrion, and Sansa found herself rather grateful not to have to face the brunt of it as she stalked into the room, fiery anger radiating off of her.

She walked forward in silence, however, slamming the tray down on the table next to the game's board with a loud crash that made Sansa jump.

Shae sent her a look that was almost apologetic before reaching out to pour Tyrion some wine from the flask she had brought into a waiting cup, slamming the partially glass cup down by his hand, near enough that Sansa almost flinched at what could have happened.

Tyrion, however, merely sighed.

"Would my lady like some food?" Shae asked then, turning a forced smile on Sansa.

Sansa shook her head, not at all hungry.

Shae nodded, picking up the tray of food once more. "I'll just return this to the kitchens then, if that will be all."

Her accusing stare turned on Tyrion. He didn't dare protest.

"I'll be back soon," she promised Sansa, in a slightly softer voice, before it hardened once more. "To ensure nothing ontoward happens."

The door slammed behind her.

"I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do," Tyrion said, and Sansa nearly gagged at the thought of doing as he suggested, remembering their wedding night, but nodded dutifully. "But do try to understand that I merely suggested it for your safety, my lady. I wish...I wish that there were any other way to protect you."

Sansa looked deliberately away, wishing that Shae had left some food so that she could distract herself by playing with it, even if she had no intention of eating it.

Tyrion sighed, tipping over his king. "I find I have no more desire to play," he told the room at large. "I shall be dealing with...Whatever it is Master of Coin is actually supposed to deal with, if anyone has need of me."

Sansa very much doubted that she would.

It had been a fear, of course, that he would make such a decision after the conversation with his lord father; why else had she made such a point to avoid him, whenever she was given the opportunity?

But she had thought it a misplaced fear, an irrational one that his words would soon soothe from her mind, and they could go back to their strange not-quite-friendship, as they had been before.

Now she understood why Shae had not attempted to hinder her, in her avoidance of her lord husband.

She had thought it because Shae wished more time alone with Lord Tyrion herself, but now she saw the truth, and wished she could be sick.

Her lord husband wanted a child in her belly, just as Joffrey and the rest of the Lannisters did, and they would certainly not be satisfied if she refused them now. It was a husband's right to demand such a thing of his wife, after all, even if he was a monster and she would rather die.

Her lord husband had said that he would not force her to do anything she did not want, but she remembered their wedding night all too vividly, when he had told her to strip and had touched her breasts while she held back tears, and she knew that wasn't true. Not entirely.

And, while he had stopped himself before he could put a child in her then, that was what he was asking of her now.

A child.

She had not tried to stop him, then. Had told him that he was her lord husband and she was a woman flowered, and had fully expected the Lannister monster to take her then, in a rough parody of what her septa had told her would happen on her wedding night.

She would not try to stop him now, either, she knew, much as the thought of a child horrified her.

Because he would simply do it anyway.

She remembered what Joffrey had taunted her with, wondered if a dwarf's child would also be a dwarf, shriveled and horrifying and just as much of a monster as the rest of his family.

She knew that, if she refused, the Lannisters would take what they wanted from her anyway. That she was the last heir to the North, and they would not waste that opportunity by letting someone else attempt to claim it.

She had been a fool to accept Prince Oberyn's proposal to take her back to Dorne with him without asking any questions, whether they were about his character or his plans for her when she arrived in Dorne, but she realized now that such questions didn't matter.

Even if the Martells only wanted her for the same thing the Tyrells had, the same thing the Lannisters had, at least she would not give birth to a Lannister baby.

So long as Prince Oberyn took her from this place soon.

Chapter Text

She was not speaking to her husband any longer.

He had twice attempted to broach the subject of their need for a child, a subject which Sansa refused to speak about at all, whether with him or the Lady Shae.

She had refused to keep speaking to her lord husband after their next supper, though she had resolved not to avoid him any longer. She had nothing else to say to him, after all, but she need not fear anything else he might tell her.

She was a Stark, and did not cower in fear from the lions, but nor did that mean she had to acqueise to them, if she could help it.

If Lord Tyrion wanted a child of her before Prince Oberyn made known to her his plans to leave the capitol, he would have to force one on her.

And her lord husband seemed resolved not to do that, so Sansa considered herself safe in her punishing silence.

At least from him.

Shae was being just as punishing, or so Sansa assumed, for the other woman treated her lord husband only with dark looks and snappish replies, and he had slept every night on their sofa, rather than somewhere else, as he sometimes took to doing.

It made her rather pleased with the woman.

But Lord Tyrion was not the only one demanding a child of her. The Lannisters wanted one; wanted a child for Winterfell, and the terror that left Sansa awake at night - whether or not tonight would be the night that Joffrey slipped into her chambers and raped her - was as present as ever.

But it had been the night last, in her dreams, that she had realized that it was not the threat of a rape by a Lannister that terrified her - for that, she could hold her head high and know that this was just another crime of the Lannisters against her, against her family.

No, for her dream, while she slept just a few paces away from a Lion, had been one tormenting her just since Lord Tywin had demanded a child of his son.

In it, she had survived a birthing, though the child had to be cut out of her, lest it rip its way out, and she held the babe in her arms, a tiny little thing with a bowed spine and a large head.

Marked as a dwarf already, and Lord Tywin, who had stood in the birthing chamber the entire time, turned away in disgust as Joffrey laughed and pulled the baby away from her, demanding to be the first to hold his cousin.

He'd been beautiful, though, like Joffrey had been beautiful the very first time that Sansa had ever seen him.

She had told herself that she could love him, and pretended that his eyes did not glow red like Jon's direwolf Ghost.

Her lord husband named him, because that was his due, and Sansa pretended that a Lannister name on her child did not send her stomach roiling as he was placed back into her arms.

And then he'd grown, fast, though it became apparent again that he was a dwarf when he stood at her stomach, and she knew that he was the age of herself when she had come to King's Landing, even if she did not know quite how this was.

He was a far greater torment than Joffrey, for he had come from Sansa as well as from a Lannister, and every dark deed he did was a product of her raising him, as well as a Lannister. He carried a part of her inside of him, a part of the wolf, and yet still was a lion. Just seeing him made her feel ill, even in her dream.

"Lady Sansa?" a voice, cutting into her thoughts. Shae, waking her from her nightmare as she thrashed and screamed in her bed, but it was Lord Tyrion's face she saw when she woke, and that only made her scream anew.

"Lady Sansa," Ellaria Sand stood in front of her, a concerned look on her face as she gave Sansa a little shake, pulling her out of the horror of her thoughts and back into the throne room, taking her arm and, in effect, forcing Sansa to walk alongside her. "I wonder if I might have a word, child, if you are well?"

Sansa knew next to nothing about Ellaria Sand, beyond that she was Prince Oberyn's paramour, had birthed three of his children, and spoke her mind when she wished, unlike most of the women of King's Landing.

She wondered if the lady had learned about her conversation with Prince Oberyn, about his offer to her.

She wondered if Ellaria was jealous, would be angry that her lover had made such an offer to Sansa, though, really, she had nothing to be jealous of.

Sansa had no wish to make an enemy of no one that she was not already an enemy of, and she did not think she would like being an enemy of Ellaria Sand.

Sansa forced a smile, rather queasy still. "Of course, my lady."

Ellaria gave her a mildly reproving look. "I told you, my dear, that I am hardly a lady."

Something about the way she said those words made Sansa blush and want to look away, though she forced herself not to. "My pardon..."

Ellaria just laughed again. "My Oberyn tells me that you and he had an interesting conversation, the other day, in the city."

Sansa swallowed, a feeling rather like wary excitement washing through her. "Yes," she breathed, barely able to speak more than that. "Yes, he wanted to know my thoughts on...cities."

Ellaria's eyes flickered with amusement, and she reached up, brushing back a curl that had fallen in front of Sansa's face. Sansa flinched, and the hand disappeared as quickly as it had come, a sad look replacing the amusement. "I understand that you had some he found rather intriguing."

Sansa glanced around them, noticing once more the many people surrounding them, courtiers wanting gossip like vultures, men waiting for a chance to speak with their king.

At Joffrey, seated on the Iron Throne as though it were just any other chair, his queen seated to the side of the throne, where Cersei used to sit when she still fancied herself as ruling in Joffrey's name, laughing at something he had just said, while Cersei found herself relegated to a chair on his other side, eyes cool and, it seemed to Sansa, watching her.

Nowhere was safe for this sort of conversation, but especially not here.

"My-Ellaria," Sansa said, blushing slightly at the usage of only the woman's name, "I don't think-"

"A message, for the King!" a voice shouted from the back of the hall almost before the double doors of the Great Hall had swung open to accomodate him, and a man ran into the room, sweating and wrapped in badly fitting chainmail.

He pushed past the lords and ladies still standing in his way, bowing as he came within sight of Joffrey, even as the Kingsguard moved to surround him, pushing Sansa back against the other ladies as they did so, into Ellaria, who reached out to wrap a hand in hers.

Sansa glanced down at their entwined hands, wondering if Ellaria thought the news would be something that she would need comfort for.

Wondering when the last time she had recieved comfort had been.

"A message for the King!" the messenger repeated, stubbornly attempting to push past the wall of Kingsguard knights.

Sansa knew, as Ser Jaime Lannister reached to draw his sword, that the man would not succeed in doing so.

"Wait!" Joffrey called, jumping to his feet and grinning down at the messenger. "I'd like to hear what he has to say. The message is for me, is it not?"

Ser Jaime lowered his arm, and the messenger bowed gratefully to the King once more.

"Joffrey, my love, why don't you let the guards take care of this messenger," Cersei suggested then, her voice oily.

Joffrey ignored her completely, turning back to the Great Hall at large. "Well?' he demanded of the messenger, and Sansa wondered whether the man would wet himself right then and there, with the quaking he was doing under the king's stare.

"The Blackfish is gathering an army to lay siege to the Freys. They will lose it unless they are sent reinforcements," the messenger recited dutifully, and Joffrey lifted a brow.

"The claim the Freys got when they slaughtered that Stark pretender and his wife and lady mother for us?" he asked with a grin, sending a smirk in Sansa's direction.

It was through sheer force of will that she did not react. And, perhaps, the arm squeezing hers.

"The same, Your Grace," the messenger said quietly, and Joffrey's grin grew.

"Well then," he said, still leering at Sansa, "You seemed so serious. Is it so bad? We ought to help them, don't you think, Lady Sansa?"

Sansa gulped, shaking off Ellaria Sand's hand on her arm and stepping forward, giving her king a curtsey. "Of course, Your Grace," she murmured dutifully.

Joffrey laughed loudly in the silence of the throne room. Prince Oberyn shifted on his feet near the other members of the Small Council.

"My love," Cersei said with a patience that must have strained her, smile frozen on her face, "You should allow the Small Council to deliberate over this. They will find a solution, I am sure of it."

"Why?"

Cersei glanced at her eldest son in surprise; he did not normally contradict her in the throne room, Sansa thought with a start.

Nor did he care much about the policies of a king.

She wondered how the messenger had gotten past the guards, to speak with the King directly. She knew from her lord husband that such was not usually the case, for the less Joffrey knew, the better the Small Council deemed it. A special effort was made to ensure that he knew as little as possible.

Cruel as she had deemed it when her husband told her, allowing him to torment and play with his subjects in King's Landing as he willed was better than allowing Joffrey to make  any decisions of real importance.

"My love?" Cersei tilted her head at him, smile frozen on her face.

Sansa resolved to remember that expression, the next time Cersei tormented her.

Joffrey tossed his head. "They've only botched it up so far. Brynden Tully should have died with the rest of his degenerate relatives. Why should I allow them to continue to let him live? I am the King, not they, and they make me look like a fool for doing nothing. I ought to have them all burned to death."

The hall fell eerily silent at those words, and, a moment later, even Joffrey seemed to realize the mistake he had made in uttering them, paling and inching back toward his precious chair.

"Our Lord Hand is the Lord of Casterly Rock," Margaery said into the silence, her voice mild. "And forged this deal with House Frey. I am sure that he might be able to offer some perspective to the King on this matter, though of course the final decision should be yours, my love, not the Small Council's."

Joffrey blinked, giving Margaery a look that might almost have been grateful, if indeed he was capable of such a thing, and then glanced at Tywin. "Well?"

Lord Tywin stepped forward, eyes on Margaery as he spoke.

Cersei appeared to be smoldering, if the glare she sent Margaery was anything to go by.

Sansa hid a smile behind her sleeve as she pretended, rather unsubtly, to cough, quickly finding her way back into the shadows and next to Ellaria once more.

Ellaria looked disgusted. "He should not have asked you such a thing."

Sansa shrugged, for Joffrey's tormenting words were always better than the beatings she recieved at the hands of his Kingsguard.

"His Grace did no wrong, for he merely asked what we all knew to be the truth," Sansa said quietly, neck heating.

Ellaria bit her lip. "Lady Sansa-"

"I...I should go, Ellaria Sand," Sansa said, remembering why she had wanted to get away from this woman in the first place when she recognized Lady Rosamund, watching them with interest. "I am overtired."

Ellaria's expression turned to one of sympathy. "Of course you are, my dear girl. Should I walk you?"

Sansa swallowed. "I can find my way," she said softly, and Ellaria finally seemed to understand, smiling at her kindly (as her mother used to) before turning away, disappearing into the crowd once more.

Sansa forced herself to flee the room without running, picking up her skirts and walking daintily, as though she had not a care in the world.

It was not until she had come out into the hall that she realized she was not the only one who had made an escape, and she bit back a gasp, slipping behind a pillar lest one of her other greatest tormentors take notice of her.

Cersei did not appear to notice her at all, however, her attention arrested by another innocent.

She wondered if Cersei simply couldn't bear to let go of the illusion that she had lost control of her own son, and had fled the Great Hall for that reason.

"Lady Reanna," she said, in that smooth voice she used when she wanted something of someone else. It had never been directed at Sansa, save for when she had told the woman about her father's wish to leave King's Landing and Cersei had demanded more of her, and later, when she had demanded that Sansa write to her mother and brother, but she had heard it often enough, since.

"Your Grace," Reanna said, dipping into a curtsey. "You wished to speak with me?"

Cersei smiled. "Yes, I sent a message for you some days ago. Have you been avoiding me, child?"

Reanna swallowed, and it was then that Sansa saw how painfully young she was, and remembered where she had seen her before.

She was part of Queen Margaery's retinue, one of her handmaidens who had accompanied her here from Highgarden.

Sansa held her breath.

"No, Your Grace. The Queen has...many demands to be met, since the marriage. I was going to-"

Cersei waved a hand dismissively. "No matter. I more than anyone understand the needs of a demanding queen. We can speak now, in my chambers. Come."

Lady Reanna hesitated. "The Queen will need me soon, I think-"

Cersei's eyes hardened. "Come, Lady Reanna. I have something of a...private matter to discuss with you, that cannot be discussed here. Your queen has her other ladies to attend her, when the Great Hall is dismissed."

Lady Reanna swallowed again. "Of course, Your Grace."

Cersei smiled.

Sansa did not move until they had turned a corner and were gone entirely from her sight.

Chapter Text

Queen Margaery had sent Sansa an invitation to sew with her and some other ladies.

The words, as Sansa read them on the short missive a servant had brought her, before disappearing once more, almost made Sansa laugh hysterically.

She remembered a time when she would have been delighted to receive an invitation to sew with the Queen, to show off everything that her dear septa had taught her.

Chaos was brewing throughout the Seven Kingdoms, there were whispers that Stannis Baratheon intended to gain more men so that he could march on the North, and the Lannisters wanted a baby from Sansa. But still, the ladies would sew, as if nothing was amis.

Somehow, she managed to contain it.

The invitation was not to the royal gardens, as Sansa had thought they would be, but rather to Cersei's chambers, and Sansa shook, wondering if the invitation, even if it was written in Margaery's smooth, sprawling hand, was in fact a product of what she had seen, the other day. A trap, for her.

But there was no ignoring it. One did not refuse the Queen, after all.

She simply wondered what other reason Queen Margaery would have for being in Cersei's chambers. She knew, simply from observing them and from the few hints she had gotten from Margaery, for more than that would have endangered them both, that the Queen Mother and Margaery were not at all what one would consider friends.

She did not think that Cersei had friends, while Margaery attempted friendship with everyone. Sansa could have easily predicted that they would not get on well.

The sewing party was to start in less than an hour, and, for a moment during which she attempted to forget that she was a captive here, and not a guest, Sansa panicked.

She did not know where Shae was.

After a terrible break of fast that morning, during which there was very little speaking, and Sansa had noticed the round black circles about her lord husband's eyes, Tyrion and Sansa had gone their separate ways, and Shae had disposed of their meals, Tyrion's completely gone, and Sansa's half-eaten, if that.

Shae had helped her get ready for her day, before that, but Sansa had not seen her since, and she could not wear her day dress to see the other ladies.

She sighed aloud, walking over to her wardrobe full of clothes and rifling through it.

She had precious little in the way of gowns now, for Cersei saw no more reason to provide her with items traditionally meant to pamper, such as an excess of gowns, now that she was nothing more than a captive here, and saw only that her gowns did not ill fit her and thus embarrass House Lannister.

She had the one with golden leaves on it, elegant and light purple and very much her favorite, but Sansa pushed this one aside, for she did not wish to wear it today. Not in the Queen Regent's chambers, where Cersei would be watching her with laughing eyes.

She chose a light blue gown near the back of her wardrobe, plain and elegant enough to be worn to this sort of thing, and began undoing the back of her dress, wincing as her fingers came into contact with the light scars there from Joffrey's beatings, as she did not have Shae to do it for her.

She hated touching those. Knowing that it was likely that they would never fade away, but today Sansa's fingers stroked them awkwardly, her body shuddering inadvertently at the touch.

She remembered every stroke, every blunt edge of a blade, every back of a hand, and what perceived crime it had paid for.

She remembered the day her lord husband had bade her strip and touched her breasts, and wondered what he might have thought had he touched her back, instead, had seen the scars his dear nephew had inflicted there, if that would have aroused him in the same manner.

And then she banished such thoughts from her mind and continued to undress herself, her hands fumbling and awkward, for this was something that she had, rather to her shame, come to depend on Shae for completely.

When she wore nothing but her smallclothes, Sansa turned to the blue gown and stepped into it gingerly, as though the scars still hurt her, though in fact they did not.

When she was dressed, she elected to leave her hair as it was, as the elaborate hairstyles that Shae usually did were not something that Sansa was capable of.

She glanced at herself in the mirror, and then sighed.

There was a knock at the door, and Sansa, thinking that it was a servant, called out, "Yes, just a moment."

The door opened anyway, and Shae stuck her head in, looking Sansa up and down with something very much like suspicion in her eyes.

"That is not the dress I helped you into this morning," she said, and it took Sansa a moment to realize why she would look as angry and suspicious about such a thing as a changed dress, and she blushed fiercely.

"Queen Margaery has invited me to sew with her," she said quietly, glancing down at her hands and hoping that Shae did not interrogate her further.

But, to her surprise, when she looked up, Shae was smiling. "Good," she said, her accent slightly thicker than normal.

Sansa blinked at her, and Shae went on, "I'll walk you there."

Sansa nodded. "All right," she said, because she knew that Shae wished to walk her there out of a desire to protect her, more than anything.

Shae left her at Cersei's chambers, the handmaiden giving her an odd look and telling her to send for Shae if she had need of anything, stressing the words a little too hard, and then the guard outside of Margaery's chambers - Ser Loras, and she nodded stiffly at him - opened the doors for her, and she left Shae behind.

Margaery was not the only one in Cersei's chambers. Of course, Cersei was there as well, but Sansa was rather surprised to see Olenna Tyrell, and at least a dozen other ladies of various houses, crowded into the little room and knitting away.

She could not imagine who had thought it would be a good idea to cramp all of these young women into Cersei's new chambers, as Queen Mother, rather than Queen.

"Lady Sansa," Margaery stood to greet her, taking both of Sansa's hands in her own and forcing a contact between them.

Sansa swallowed hard, pulling her hands away the moment she had the chance to do so without seeming discourteous.

"We were worried that you were not coming," Margaery went on, seemingly oblivious to Sansa's discomfort.

Sansa glanced around at the assembled ladies; at Cersei, who had not even glanced up when she entered the room, too intent on her sewing, it seemed, though Cersei had often told her that sewing was a peculiar habit of femininity that Cersei loathed far more than idle gossip. At Lady Olenna, watching her coolly, and at the other ladies in the room, Lannister and Tyrell both, as well as the ladies of a few Tyrell banner men.

She doubted that any of them was particularly concerned about her, whether or not she came when the Queen invited her to something.

She made her excuses, citing that her lady had been late that morning and thus had caused her lateness, which caught Cersei's attention, and sat, taking the bit of sewing that Margaery offered her with a quick smile, relieved to stuff her nose into it.

She had not been invited to such an occasion for some time, before Margaery had arrived in King 's Landing, certainly, she who seemed to enjoy it rather much, for, even when Cersei was forced by propriety to make it appear as though she did something other than run the kingdom behind her son's back, she loathed of the "traitor daughter's" presence at such things. She would much rather invite Sansa somewhere to mock her or torment her in some new way, and Sansa rather liked to sew.

Sansa wondered if it was because the Queen Mother's black heart ever felt guilty, or if she merely hated to act nice to Sansa, in the presence of others.

Sansa assumed it was the latter. She had never known Cersei to feel guilty about anything.

"You ought to have your servant flogged, lest she ever be late again," Cersei said then, not looking up from her work.

Sansa flinched, knowing from Shae that the woman was hardly kind to her, and suspected her of something, though Shae had not told her what.

"Yes, Your Grace."

It had made her wonder at Shae's relationship with Tyrion, however; did she pretend to love him because he protected her from some crime that Cersei wanted justice for, or did they truly care about each other, as the days before her husband's proposal that they have a child seemed to suggest?

Margaery smiled widely at the Queen Regent's words, though something in her eyes seemed, to Sansa, to be dead.

"Her Grace is most wise, of course," she said coyly, and Sansa bit back a laugh despite herself. "We were just discussing whether or not it would be prudent for me to embroider a lion or a rose onto my sewing. I believe I shall turn it into a new pillow. The Queen Regent suggested that I somehow incorporate both, by linking them together."

"Lady Sansa doesn't care about such mindless things," Lady Olenna cut in then, saving Sansa from an answer.

Cersei's eyes flashed, but Sansa spoke first.

"Oh, I don't mind, my lady."

Cersei did look up then, giving Sansa a look like she couldn't quite understand why Sansa would pretend at playing nice with anyone, as if she hadn't known that Sansa had been doing it since she learned what Joffrey really was.

"Nonsense," Lady Olenna tutted. "There are far more interesting things afoot in King's Landing than what to put on the front of a bloody pillow. Sansa, has your impish husband given you a child yet?"

Sansa blinked.

Sansa had not spoken to the Lady Olenna since the engagement to Ser Willas had been called off in favor of the engagement to Lord Tyrion, and thus felt rather awkward, knowing the woman's hawkish eyes were on her, watching her with a dangerous precision.

She had almost forgotten the woman's sharp tongue.

"I..." Sansa flushed a deep scarlet, and glanced back down at her work, now undoubtedly botched.

"Have some fruit, Lady Sansa," Lady Olenna said then, "You look absolutely parched. Doesn't your husband make sure you are fed?"

Sansa blushed and reached forward into the fruit bowl Lady Olenna pushed toward her, took a grateful bite of pomegranate, though she knew that it certainly would not save her from furthering questioning.

The juice dribbled down her chin, and she spent an exaggerated amount of time wiping at it with her kerchief as the other ladies stared at her.

She set the pomegranate aside, only half eaten, her appetite leaving her as quickly as it had come.

Margaery leaned forward, taking Sansa's hand in hers again, and Sansa wondered if she could feel how it shook. "Lady Sansa is not so used to speaking such things so upfront, Grandmother," she admonished. "Not like us Tyrells."

"Lady Sansa and I have spoken about many such matters on occasion," Cersei spoke up then, and Sansa wondered if she could crawl into the floor and die, to avoid such a conversation.

She understood the obsession, to some extent. There had been no new gossip in King's Landing since word of Lord Tywin's intent for Sansa to birth a child had gotten out, and so the ladies flocked about her, awaiting new gossip.

But she did not understand the constant questioning, as though she had something to hide that must be brought forth with each new conversation, or the way that all of the ladies present seemed to lean forward, like vultures in wait.

"I...Have had my moon's blood this month, my lady," she told Lady Olenna, much to the sighs of the ladies about her.

"Ah, well," Cersei said, a wicked look in her eyes, "Perhaps next month the gods shall bless you, my sweet little dove."

Sansa forced down a shudder. "I pray it so," she said sweetly, and something flashed in Cersei's eyes that still made Sansa feel rather proud.

"I myself expect to have a child soon," Margaery spoke up then, in a low voice, and Sansa sent her a grateful look. "The King is very...passionate. But what can one expect? He is half a stag, and half a lion."

The ladies laughed at this, all save Olenna, who was watching Cersei. Cersei's own smile was rather cool, though it was present.

Sansa wondered what that meant, even as she forced a smile at the joke, the thought of Joffrey being...passionate to Margaery making her feel ill.

She glanced at the half-eaten pomegranate, sitting there with its juices dripping onto the table, seeds and insides visible, and thought she felt nauseous.

It looked like the inside of a body, like blood.

"Lady Sansa?" she blinked, realizing that Margaery had been calling her name. "Are you quite well?"

Sansa swallowed hard. "I...think I might merely have swallowed a seed, Your Grace. I will be quite fine."

Margaery gave her a long look. "How many times have I told you, Sansa, you needn't call me 'Your Grace,' so formally, when we are not formal here."

Cersei cleared her throat. "I hardly think it appropriate to give such liberties to the daughter of a dead traitor, my dear gooddaughter."

"Oh," Margaery glanced up at her, face small and vulnerable. "I didn't..." she glanced back at Sansa. "I have only been in the capitol for a little while, Your Grace. I suppose these things still confuse me."

Cersei dipped her head. "Understandable. There are so many rules of etiquette, here, that are not so observed in Highgarden."

Margaery's smile turned wicked. "Yes, of course, goodmother. For instance, I hardly know whether to call you Queen Mother or Dowager Queen, these days," Margaery said sweetly, and Sansa choked.

Cersei sent her a glare that, had it been capable of killing her by itself, would have done so.

"My pardon, my ladies," Sansa apologized, setting aside her knitting. "Perhaps I swallowed more than one. Might I have some water?"

Lady Olenna gave her a shrewd look, reaching toward the table too far away from where Sansa sat for a large cask of liquid. "Some summer wine, I think," she said, gesturing to one of the servants to bring Sansa a cup and pour for her.

"Queen Mother is quite fine," Cersei said, her smile brittle now, and Margaery sent her a relieved look.

"Oh, thank you for telling me," she said smoothly, going back to her sewing. "Though I hope that I might still call you goodmother, between ourselves."

Sansa thought that was going too far, that, in the next moment, Cersei would call the guards and have Margaery's throat slit.

And then she realized what was perhaps the point of all of this, that Margaery was the Queen now, not Cersei, and to do so would have been treason.

Cersei bared her teeth more than smiled, then. "Of course, gooddaughter. I would want nothing less."

The door swung open then, startling Sansa nearly into dropping her cup of wine, and Lady Reanna swept into the room, her face red as though she had been running, and a servant shut the door behind her as she curtseyed to her queen.

"Reanna," Margaery said, a touch of annoyance in her tone, and with none of the understanding she'd had when Sansa had arrived late, "Where have you been this morning?"

Reanna cast a skittish glance at Cersei before pulling her eyes back to her queen. "I...felt a bit under the weather, Your Grace. It won't happen again."

Margaery glanced at Cersei even as she spoke. "See that it does not."

Lady Reanna dipped her head once more and found her way over to the other assembled Tyrell ladies whose names that Sansa was still unsure of, picking up a bit of embroidery and setting fast to work on it as if to cause those around her to forget her absence as quickly as possible.

Sansa saw the look on Cersei's face, and wondered if they did.

Chapter Text

Lady Reanna was late again, this morning. Margaery had turned to ask why she had not yet served her morning serving of warm milk for her breakfast, and discovered that Reanna was not there.

Margaery had an intolerance for lateness. It was one of the only complaints that her ladies and servants could ever make of her, for timeliness was a form of power.

Reanna had been making a habit of lateness, recently.

Margaery would have to have a talk with her, the next time she did see the girl.

"What is it, my queen?" Joffrey asked, from where he sat beside her at the breakfast table. Behind him, Loras stiffened, sending Margaery a concerned glance, but she smiled to placate both of them at once.

"Nothing, my love. Only, one of my ladies who usually attends to me at the break of fast is not present, but it is nothing." She motioned for Lady Rosamund to step forward and take Reanna's place, which the girl did quickly, pouring her milk.

Margaery took a small sip and relished the taste.

There were few enough things in life that someone in Margaery's position ought to get attached to, but she had always enjoyed the taste of warm milk first thing in the morning, with a sprinkling of honey in it.

"The pretty redhead?" Joffrey asked, and Margaery set the cup down quickly.

"Yes, my love. She is of one of the vassal houses loyal to House Tyrell. Lady Reanna."

Joffrey nodded, then, "I don't see why you keep her around," he pouted. "It's an honor to serve my queen, not an obligation. If she can't see that, you ought to let me chop off her head and find someone better for you."

Lady Rosamund went rather stiff as she set down the pitcher of milk and moved back into place behind Margaery, alone today.

Margaery reached out, placing her hand over her husband's. "A most wise counsel, my love. I shall have to think on it; she was once a most loyal friend to me, but I suppose..."

Joffrey sniffed, pulling his hand free of hers. "Even the most loyal of friends can turn, once one comes into power. Look at the Starks, who were loyal friends to my father."

Margaery nodded serenely. "Yes, their capacity for treason often worries me. They managed it so quickly, after King Robert's death, when Lord Stark had the whole of Westeros convinced that he was King Robert's dearest and closest friend."

Joffrey raised a brow. "Yes," he said slowly. "The man was a treasonous degenerate, no doubt. He saw an opportunity for power and took it, without thinking of the damage he would cause. But look at the Starks now!" Joffrey laughed gleefully. "I've taken all of their heads, save for Lady Sansa's. Maybe I'll take her head soon, once my lord uncle's filled her with another dwarf!"

Margaery smiled coolly, having heard the same threat towards Sansa at least twice a day since her marriage to Joffrey. "I would just...I wish that there was some way I could feel safer, now that I am a queen. I do not know who to trust, if friends may turn so easily."

Joffrey leaned forward then, suddenly intent as he lifted Margaery's chin and bade her to look at him. "Trust me," he told her, voice oddly sincere. "I will cut off the heads of anyone who even thinks an ill thought toward my queen, and my Kingsguard will protect you to the death. You have my word."

Margaery smiled. "I am so relieved to hear that, my love. I know that I should not be bothering you with such worries, for you have so many other, more important matters to attend to..."

"You are my queen," Joffrey interrupted her, almost sounding incredulous. "There is no one more important to me."

Margaery smiled up at him underneath her lashes, and took another sip of her slowly cooling milk.

The door opened then, and Lady Reanna walked into the room, looking slightly flustered as she bowed to the King and curtseyed to the Queen.

"Where have you been, Lady?" Joffrey demanded, before Margaery had even opened her mouth to get a word in, and Margaery frowned into her cup. "My queen was most wroth."

Reanna swallowed, glanced at Margaery. "I am so sorry, my King, my Queen. I...I overslept, this morning. I have no excuse."

Joffrey looked like he intended to bid Loras to cut off her head then and there.

Margaery stood to her feet, smoothing down her dress. "I would like a private word with you, Lady Reanna, now that I've finished my meal and you've finally appeared." She turned wide eyes on Joffrey. "Assuming, of course, that that is all right with Your Grace?"

Joffrey waved a hand. "Of course, of course." His eyes narrowed on Reanna. "This time."

Lady Reanna shivered as she hurried after Margaery, and Lady Rosamund was left behind to clean up Margaery's break of fast, alone with Joffrey, it seemed, for a moment later, Loras appeared in the hall, shutting the door to Joffrey's chambers behind him.

"Hadn't you better stay and continue guarding the King?" Margaery asked her brother coyly.

Loras looked like he was attempting the better part of valor by not grinding his teeth to dust then and there. "His Grace has Ser Boros arriving in just a few moments, and understands your desire for protection at all times," he told her, and Margaery hesitated for a moment, before nodding and sweeping down the hall.

"My lady, I truly am sorry-" Reanna went on, and Margaery stopped, holding up a hand. Reanna fell silent.

"I am going to the library now, Lady Reanna," she told the girl, not unkindly. "I have been reminded during the break of fast that there is something requiring my attention to be sought there. You may go."

Reanna lowered her head. "Your Grace," she said, before dipping into another curtsey and hurrying down the hall.

"That was rather harsh," Loras commented, coming up to stand beside her. "She's only been late, what, twice now?"

Margaery narrowed her eyes at Reanna's retreating back. "Three times," she stated, absently. "I really do wish to go the library, however, and I have you to protect me. I shall not need another lady."

Loras raised an eyebrow at her. "You aren't fond of reading ancient tomes, Sister," he said then, sounding slightly suspicious, and Margaery sent him a wide smile.

"I have recently acquired a taste for it," she told him, and he simply raised a brow. She sighed. "There is someone who will most likely be there at this hour whom I would like to speak to," she told him, and began walking once more.

Loras' long legs quickly kept up with her, and Margaery sighed, knowing there would be more onslaught of questions the longer that they walked.

"Are you speaking of...a certain spider?" Loras asked, lowering his voice.

Margaery rolled her eyes, glancing around them. They were alone in the hall, but if one of Varys' spiders had been here, Loras' lowered voice would not have stopped them from overhearing.

"And why would I do that, Loras? The Master of Whispers and I have nothing to say to one another."

"Nor, I suspect, do you have anything to say to anyone within the royal library," Loras pointed out, and Margaery's lips quirked into one of amusement, despite herself. "What was this urgent thing that Joffrey reminded you of?"

Margaery raised a brow at him. "Perhaps it was my warm milk that reminded me, Loras. It does have a way of waking me up, in the morning."

Loras rolled his eyes, fondly, and pushed the hair out of his eyes. "Give me some credit, dear sister."

Margaery gave him a coquettish smile instead, and Loras sighed, following after her the rest of the way to the library in the customary silence between a Queen and a member of the Kingsguard.

Or, at least, Margaery had found it so, during her short time as Queen. She wondered if they had been instructed not to speak with her unless absolutely necessary lest they bring into question her honor, or if they merely chose not to engage the wife of the King.

Either way, it was probably wise not to encourage them to do otherwise, save for Loras.

Margaery paused outside the door of the library. "No one is really here, this time of the morning."

"Marg-"

"You can guard me just as well from out in the hall, to ensure I have no visitors," Margaery said, giving him a placating smile. "This is...something I would like to do alone. It is not that I don't trust you," she said, at his look, "Only, this is a conversation of a somewhat private nature, and I worry that your presence will be...troublesome, for the other party."

Loras raised a brow at her. "I would think, after your impassioned speech to Joffrey, that that is the last thing you would like, to be left without protection for even a moment."

Margaery shrugged. "Well, then...pace, or something," she told him, before stepping into the library and shutting the door purposely behind her.

She heard Loras sigh as the door shut, but then she was no longer thinking of Loras much at all.

Sansa Stark was sitting in a corner of the library, as Margaery understood she did every morning at this hour, attempting to make herself look as small as possible, curled up with her knees in front of her and holding a book before her.

Margaery glanced at the cover, almost hidden beneath Sansa's gentle fingers, raising a brow at the title.

The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children.

A mouthful, to be sure, and not Sansa's usual fare. Margaery could remember long days in the sun of the royal gardens, watching Sansa read the lyrics of the Songs she had never quite been able to give up, despite her insistence that she no longer believed in them.

Margaery had a feeling she knew why the other girl read it, anyway.

Sansa held the large tome as though it were just any other book, and not bursting in her hands.

"An interesting read," Margaery said, smirking slightly as she plopped down onto the chair beside Sansa's.

The girl jumped, slamming the book shut and blushing profusely as she moved the book behind  her, as though that would undo the damage of Margaery having already seen it. "Queen Margaery. I didn't realize anyone else was here. I..."

Margaery nodded, sympathetic in an instant. "Of course. Would you like me to leave?"

Sansa swallowed, looked away. "That hardly matters, Your Grace. I have no more claim to this library than you."

"I told you before Sansa, just Margaery," Margaery said, smiling gently at her.

"The Queen Mother-"

And suddenly Margaery was turned toward her, staring intently at her, so close that she could feel Sansa's sharp intake of breath.

"Cersei isn't here," Margaery pointed out, looking about them exaggeratedly. "And as Joffrey likes to say, A queen can do as she likes."

Sansa, despite herself, almost looked amused. It was a vague amusement, the kind that Margaery had sometimes seen on Sansa's face when a Lannister said something foolish. "I don't think that's it."

Margaery shrugged.

They sat in silence for a long moment, Margaery watching the contents of her cup swirl as she waited for Sansa to speak again, wondering at the merit of the drink that Cersei found so comforting.

She supposed that she did not blame the woman. She had been prone to drink more often than not, lately. It came with being in such close proximity with Joffrey, so often.

She found herself wondering what Sansa was thinking, for the other girl was simply sitting, not looking again at the book since she'd noticed Margaery's presence.

She missed Sansa's candor. Her honesty. Sansa was one of the only people in King's Landing brave enough to carry on an honest conversation, one that did not require the usual deciphering of words.

"All black of hair," Sansa said presently, her voice tired, and Margaery blinked, glancing up at her.

"I'm sorry?"

"The Baratheon line before Joffrey's birth. The Queen wanted this book burned, when Joffrey was crowned," Sansa said, her voice quiet, not meeting Margaery's gaze as she nodded to the book, now set back on the table where it would usually be found.

"It was the last thing my father touched, before he committed treason. I think she thought that there would be something incriminating, in it. She had Grand Maester Pycelle read it through, twice, just to be sure. Lord Tyrion convinced her not to. It's one of only two copies in the world, after all, and to burn it would look suspicious."

Margaery had not known that, but it sounded like something Cersei would do. She opened her mouth to say something, though, in this moment, she didn't know what it would be.

That was a startling realization, for someone who always had a response to her surroundings.

She was sure that there were two things that she was supposed to say. If she was certain they were not being overheard, she was supposed to offer comfort, and perhaps shock, at the confirmation of what had killed Sansa's father.

If she wasn't, she was supposed to reprimand the other girl, or steer the conversation into safer waters.

"I am glad that she did not burn it, then," she said finally, and Sansa blinked up at her, forehead furrowed prettily.

"I'm not," she said finally, with a little shrug. "It did not save my father, but only killed him."

"Valar Moghulis," Margaery said, and Sansa looked at her. "It is High Valyrian. It means-"

"All men must die," Sansa whispered softly, almost choking on the words. "Forgive me, Queen Margaery, but I should not have-"

Margaery nodded. "But your father should not have been one of them. The Lannisters were...wrong to kill him. From what Renly told me about him, he was an honorable man, and did not deserve such a death. And...I am sorry for your loss. I don't know if I ever told you that."

Sansa stumbled to her feet, almost tossing the book aside, then. "I should...I should go," she stammered out, refusing to meet Margaery's eyes. "And you shouldn't say such things."

Margaery arched a brow. "Why ever not? I am the Queen, and can say as I will."

"It's treason," Sansa hissed out.

"Treason. Yes, I suppose it is," Margaery mused, tone almost conversational as Sansa made her way toward the door, hand already on the latch.

Sansa paused, back still to her, and Margaery hated that. Needed her to turn around and look her in the eyes.

Perhaps that need had loosened her tongue a bit too much.

"Do you love him?" Sansa asked, her back still turned.

Margaery thought for a moment. "No."

Sansa blinked at her, looking suddenly wary. "Why do you...Why don't you try to stop him, the horrible things that he does? Do you...enjoy what he does?"

Margaery shrugged. "I don't. I merely...All men must die." She gave Sansa a long look, thought of the years that Sansa had survived at court before Margaery had arrived. "They die when they make war, or honorable mistakes. But we are not men, my Sansa. And we are survivors. I saw the way that Joffrey treats you, and I do not believe it is all because of your family did, Sansa. And I am not alone here, in King's Landing. There are things that I must do that I wish I did not have to, just as you do."

Sansa turned to face her, appeared to be thinking about her words intently for a moment, before she nodded. "Valar Morghulis," she repeated Margaery's earlier words.

Margaery gave her a small smile.

Chapter Text

"Lady Sansa," Margaery greeted her with a wide smile as she walked into the new queen's chambers, having been summoned there just after breaking her fast.

For some reason that Sansa was not sure she understood, nor that did she want to understand, the Queen still retained her chambers within the Maidenvault. She wondered, often, if it was a threat from Cersei, or if Margaery felt safer here, surrounded by her Tyrell family and banner men, rather than closer to Joffrey's own chambers.

She wondered how many nights the new Queen actually spent within the Maidenvault, now that she was married to Joffrey, and then shook such thoughts from her mind, remembering that she and Margaery were now friends, and to think such thoughts of her dear friend would be unbecoming.

"Margaery," she greeted, remembering herself just in time before calling the other woman 'Your Grace,' as Margaery seemed to have a particular aversion from hearing that title from Sansa's lips.

"I thought that we might take a turn around the Red Keep, or perhaps the Sept of Baelor?" Margaery asked her sweetly. "I find myself growing tired of the royal gardens. Too many flowers can do a rose harm, after all."

Sansa smiled at the little quip. "I would love to, Y-Margaery," she said, and, if it was at all possible, Margaery's smile seemed to grow as she reached out and took Sansa's arm, leading her from the room as Ser Loras and two of her ladies followed behind them.

Seeing the ladies reminded Sansa of the strange interaction she had witnessed between Cersei and Lady Reanna, and she opened her mouth to bring it up, but Margaery cut her off, turning to her suddenly and asking, "Have you yet had a tour of the Maidenvault?"

Sansa swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, though she did not really understand why, Margaery's body flush against her own, they were standing so close. "No, I have not. The Queen Mother wished to put me in here when I was betrothed to Joffrey, but my father would not have me far from him. And...After..."

"Say no more," Margaery told her, not unkindly, as her features twisted in sympathy, and Sansa wondered how much of it was real.

She wondered if she would always be wondering such things about Margaery.

She, unlike Sansa, had not lost a father before, and could not possibly know what it was like, not really, though Sansa had seen grief in the other woman's eyes days before, when they had spoken in the library and reached their tenuous understanding.

Their interactions were still strained. Sansa might have forgiven Margaery the moment she saw the understanding in the other girl's eyes, might have known that Margaery saw a similar understanding in her own, but she still didn't know if she could trust her.

Didn't know if she could spend the rest of her time in King's Landing watching a friend stand beside Joffrey as his queen, smiling prettily when he spoke of cutting off the heads of half a dozen smallfolk from Flea Bottom who had started a riot.

Didn't know if she could allow herself to become friends with Margaery Tyrell once more when she knew that she was going to leave here soon, the moment the Martells did.

But they were not as strained as Sansa had expected them to be. It was...surprisingly easy to go back to the way things had once been, between the two of them, when Sansa had not thought that Margaery was just using her and Margaery had not been married to Joffrey.

"Do you know the story of King Baelor the Blessed's sisters?" Margaery asked as they walked, arm in arm.

Sansa blinked. She had heard it before, of course, a little from Joffrey when he'd explained his reasoning for putting Margaery and her family here, and the rest of it perhaps from her septa, though she did not remember, but she shook her head, anyway.

There was something about Margaery that made her wish to listen to whatever the other woman wished to say, no matter what it was about, though she was rather curious as to why Margaery had brought it up, now.

It was a passing strange subject to discuss between the two of them, even if it was part of this tour that Margaery was giving her.

"They say that he was so pious that he believed that feeling such a thing as lust for his sisters would be a great sin," Margaery said, as they walked out into the corridor and passed what she quickly explained was Ser Loras' rooms, just across the hall from Margaery's own. Sansa had always heard the story from her septa as him worrying that he might fall in love with his sisters, but then, she had been so very young, then. "And so he had his three sisters locked up in here, in the Maidenvault, where they would not provide a temptation to him."

Sansa raised a brow, and felt safe enough around the other woman to ask the question which she had always wished to know. "Did it work?"

Margaery blinked at her, pausing in their little tour outside of her father's chambers, and then barked out a laugh. "I don't know," she said finally, still chuckling, and then, "I suppose that I would find it...rather difficult to believe, if it had."

Sansa blushed, remembering what her lady mother had once told her when she asked about why Jon's presence was tolerated in Winterfell, if he was a bastard as she had been told by her septa and the cruel boys who picked on Jon in the stables.

That men could not be inhibited by the sort of rules that women, and especially ladies, must abide by in matters of propriety. She wondered if that was what Margaery had meant.

"And this is where my lady grandmother sleeps," Margaery was saying, when Sansa refocused her attention on the other girl, just outside the Lady Olenna's chambers. "She's been...spending an awful lot of time in there, lately. More than she does in the gardens, now."

Sansa blinked in concern. "Is she well?"

Margaery stared intently at the closed door to her grandmother's chambers for a moment, before turning back to Sansa with an almost too bright smile. "Of course. Merely tired of Lannisters for company, I suppose."

Sansa certainly sympathized.

Margaery showed her several more rooms, unexciting in their appearance and use, parlors and a dining hall that the Tyrells used amongst themselves, as well as a sewing room far superior to Cersei's chambers, and a room that the Tyrell guards had begun to use as an armory, if Sansa could tell anything of an armory, before Ser Loras quickly shut that door and ushered them on with a stern look toward Margaery.

"And here is where most of my maidens sleep, save for my pillow friend, Elinor," Margaery gestured to several doors at once, and suddenly, they were at the end of the Maidenvault, and Sansa blinked, realizing that the corridor was rather small indeed for the Tyrell host. She wondered if the rooms were much larger than Lord Tyrion's, and then realized the foolishness of such a thought. Of course they were; Margaery was the Queen, after all, and could have only the best, no matter how little Cersei liked the thought.

Margaery clapped her hands together, as Sansa had noticed she did when she wished to move on, either in conversation or in body.

"Giving you a tour is not half as fun as I thought it would be," she pronounced then, and Sansa felt herself blushing, despite that she did not know why. "The Maidenvault is rather an uninspiring place."

"I am sorry, Y-"

"I think we ought to tour my bedchambers, instead," Margaery said, flashing her a smile as she took Sansa's arm and all but dragged her back down the hall, past her ladies and Ser Loras.

"Your Grace-"

The look that Margaery sent her then was almost annoyed, and Sansa flinched under it. "Margaery, Sansa. Come now."

"Margaery," Sansa repeated dutifully, "I do not think that it would be entirely appropriate, for me to go into your private chambers, especially with Ser Loras."

Margaery blinked at her, and then laughed. "Nonsense. My brother will never tell, will you, Loras?"

Loras grinned. "Of course not, Lady Sansa, though if it will make you uncomfortable, I can wait in the hall. But I must guard my sister queen at all times, you understand."

Margaery rolled her eyes in fond exasperation toward her brother. "It isn't as if I will come under threat in my own chambers, Loras. Unless you suspect the Lady Sansa of dastardly intentions?"

Sansa blushed, not wanting to put either of them out. "No, it is quite all right, Ser Loras."

"Wonderful," Margaery said, opening the doors to her chambers. "Then I do not see a problem. Oh!"

Sansa glanced around her, into Margaery's opulent chambers. They were beautiful, far more so than hers had been back when she was the 'beloved' of Joffrey, and even now that she was married to Lord Tyrion.

The walls were made of pure gold, the bedding a dark Tyrell green and the bedchamber itself seemed to go on forever.

The only complaint that she might have had with the rooms, had they been her own, were that there were no windows whatsoever, merely fake ones made of stained glass, but, for some reason, Sansa did not think that sort of thing would bother Margaery.

She blinked when she saw the beautiful young woman sitting on the end of Margaery's bed, auburn hair almost glowing in the dim lighting of the room.

"I did not know you were in here," Margaery told the other girl, and almost looked embarrassed, or as embarrassed as Sansa could ever imagine her looking.

The auburn haired girl stood to her feet, green silks rustling about her as she grinned at the Queen. "I can leave, if you like."

"Sansa, this is my lady Elinor Tyrell, my pillow friend and cousin," Margaery introduced the girl standing by her bed, and Sansa flushed a little, dipping into a small curtsey as Elinor did the same. "Do you mind terribly if she stays?"

"Lady Sansa," she said in greeting. "Her Grace has told me so much about you, though I regret that I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before now, save in passing."

Sansa blinked at her, somewhat surprised at how earnest the other girl sounded. "T-Thank you," she said finally, "And, no, of course not."

Margaery's smile was wide. "Wonderful," she repeated. "I shall have some tea brought up to strengthen us for a walk about the Keep, and perhaps we can play a game while we wait for it?"

Sansa nodded, still a bit too in awe of Margaery's stately chambers to really register what she was saying.

Margaery motioned for Elinor to go for tea, and the other girl walked out into the hall, finding a servant and giving her quick orders for moon tea before hurrying back inside, with a small smirk on her lips.

"My chambers in Highgarden were far finer than this, and I was not a queen then," Margaery said, after Elinor shut the door behind herself, with a wink at Sansa. "Though, I suppose we all must suffer for the sake of the Crown."

Elinor raised a brow. "You mean, we can't all expect to be as spoiled as you are," she teased, and Margaery's laugh was so musical that it made Sansa swallow hard and want very much to hear more of it.

"We mustn't let on about such things in front of Sansa," Margaery mock-chastised Elinor. "She might think us too spoiled."

Elinor laughed again, and Sansa blushed. "Oh, no, I couldn't."

Thankfully, then Margaery seemed to take pity on her, moving toward the little divan on the opposite end of her chambers and reaching behind it.

"I have a game here," Margaery said. "Nothing so very eloquent, I'm afraid, but suppose you would like to play it with me?"

Sansa had hardly played anything, besides when Tyrion had taught her cyvasse, since she had come to King's Landing, and she wondered if she was still young enough to play games, as Margaery and Lady Elinor seemed to be.

And then she remembered that she and Margaery were not so far apart in age, if circumstances, and surely she could manage one game.

Sansa swallowed. "Of course. I would love to."

They sat, the three girls around the game while Ser Loras took up post against the wall behind them, hand on the pommel of his sword and making smirking interjections as Margaery taught Sansa the game and they waited for their tea.

The game itself was fairly simple. It was a board game, like cyvasse, but very different in every other way, and reminded her of some of the games her brothers had liked to play in Winterfell, with sticks whereas this game used golden rods.

The goal of the game was to roll the dice and take as many sticks as one could from the other players.

Margaery was very good at it.

They played until tea came, and then Sansa took the welcome chance to break by sipping at her tea idly as she stared at the board, her intentions rather clear, it seemed, for Elinor laughed at her.

She did not feel the need to blush under the laughter, for Elinor's laugh was sweet and did not seem to be mocking her, as Joffrey's laugh would have.

Sansa had one golden rod yet left to her.

"I am terrible at this game," Sansa pronounced, as Margaery took another of her sticks for herself, heedless of her own tea.

Margaery and Elinor laughed.

"Don't worry," Elinor said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "I was as well, at first, and Margaery is far better at this game then she would have you believe. It is very popular in Highgarden. Hence why she is winning. I have yet to see her lose, save against her brother Lord Willas."

Sansa blushed at the mention of Lord Willas. "Is he...very good?" she asked, and Margaery smiled.

"My brother adores board games, sweet Sansa, almost as much as he does hawks. He has promised to have a game of cyvasse imported from Dorne for me, that we might play it together, as he's heard it is absolutely wonderful."

Sansa thought of the game that Lord Tyrion kept at the little table in their chambers. It was intriguing, but she was just as terrible at it as she was at this one, and did not find it 'absolutely wonderful' as Margaery had called it.

"My lord Tyrion has a game of it," she told them, and Margaery gasped.

"Does he? I can't imagine how he managed to get one from Dorne so quickly. The game has only just taken on there. Oh, Sansa, you must get it for us to play sometime."

Sansa smiled, and pretended that she was still on enough of speaking terms with her husband to ask him for such a favor.

Elinor took another turn, and then huffed into her cup of tea

"Lady Victaria, a distant cousin of ours, once played this game against us when she visited Highgarden, and, after two rounds, she declared it absolutely ridiculous and began breaking her sticks," Elinor said, and Sansa laughed in disbelief.

"Surely she didn't!"

Margaery smiled. "Lady Victaria is a very...stern woman," she said, and then glanced at Elinor with a smirk on her lips. The two burst into laughter.

Sansa glanced between the two of them, noting how very close they seemed compared to how Margaery usually seemed around her ladies.

"Did you live in Highgarden before coming to King's Landing, Lady Elinor?" she asked presently, and Elinor pulled her gaze away from Margaery and back into her tea.

"Yes, milady. I have been a pillow friend to Margaery since we were both very young girls. I was sent to live in Highgarden by my parents, in the hopes of finding a good match."

Sansa smiled, and pretended that she was not jealous, to see the two of them, such good friends and able to confide in one another so easily here in King's Landing.

She'd had Jeyne, before, though Jeyne was gone now, likely dead, Sansa could not help but think, though Lord Baelish had once assured her that her friend would be taken care of.

She had not seen Jeyne since then, though, and Elinor reminded her a bit of Jeyne.

She hoped that the Lannisters did not steal Elinor away as they had her one friend in King's Landing, for Margaery's sake, and as she thought Cersei seemed to wish to do with the Lady Reanna.

"Margaery," she said suddenly, "Where is Lady Reanna?"

Margaery blinked at her, clearly surprised by the question. "She has been rather under the weather lately, poor girl, and has been sloth-like in her duties. I gave her the day off, to rest."

Sansa felt a bit cold, and then Elinor leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "Between the three of us, I've seen her spending a lot of time around Ser Osmund Kettleblack. I think that her 'illness' recently might be the result of spending a bit too much time abed."

"Elinor!" Margaery scolded, but Elinor hardly looked repentant.

Sansa blinked at that. Lady Reanna was a woman flowered, after all, and Ser Osmund was one of the Kingsguard particularly loyal to Cersei. Perhaps the woman had found out about it, and that was why she had approached Reanna.

Sansa certainly hoped that that was all it was, for she had not liked the look in Cersei's eyes when she had spoken to Reanna, and she did not wish to cast suspicion upon one of Margaery's ladies and friends without more information.

Chapter Text

"I thought you were angry with me," Sansa heard Tyrion say, from behind the door to their chambers as she returned with a slight spring in her step to them after the tour of the Red Keep with Margaery, in which they had somehow avoided Joffrey completely, a feat she did not believe to be a coincidence, and paused where she stood, hand poised to push it open.

She was not particularly sure why she did not simply go in and announce herself, why she paused and waited, when her lady mother and her septa had always taught her against doing such a discourteous thing as eavesdropping.

That was an antic far more befitting of Arya.

Sansa swallowed, and did not open the door, attempting to regain her composure as her mind’s eye traveled to thoughts of Arya, of whether she was even still alive now.

And thus, she could not help but hear the response, a bit surprised to realize that Shae and her lord husband were alone in their chambers, even when she knew that she should not be so surprised.

"I am angry with you," Shae snapped back, and she heard the sound of furniture being moved, wondered what was going on, but did not dare to open the door. "You are the one who made me Lady Sansa's servant. She is a very sweet, very little, girl. If you put a child in her, I shall never forgive you.”

Indignation flared in Sansa for a moment at being called a little girl by a woman whom she'd come to consider as a friend, but then she remembered that, in her own way, Shae was defending her.

It felt so long since anyone in King's Landing had attempted to do so.

Tyrion sighed. "Do you think I don't know that? My father-"

"Your father called me to the Tower of the Hand today," Shae interrupted him, and Sansa's stomach dropped in worry at the other woman's tone. "Again."

She knew, of course, that Shae and Tyrion were...closer, than any maidservant and nobleman had a right to be, knew that the long looks they gave each other and the nights that Tyrion did not spend in his own chambers were significant, though they still went to the trouble to hide it from Sansa, for whatever reason, she knew not.

It was not as though she could tell anyone. Not as though she wished to do so.

She didn't understand, to be honest, why it was so important, that the two of them keep their relationship a secret, even if they could never be wed and Tyrion was supposed to care for her. Grandmaester Pycelle slept with the kitchen girls, and did not bother about which ones they were, and everyone knew of it.

The long silence from inside her quarters caught Sansa's attention, and she was just on the verge on entering once more when Tyrion spoke again.

"Again?" Tyrion asked, sounding somewhere between incredulous and terrified.

Shae made a humming sound. "He called me to the Tower of the Hand before the wedding."

"And you didn't see fit to mention this because..."

Shae didn't answer for a long time, and Sansa found herself wondering if they had somehow sensed her outside their chambers, and were going to pull the door open and accuse her of being the little eavesdropper that she evidently was.

They did not.

"Because it wasn't important," Shae said. "You already knew that he at least suspects what I am, and I am not leaving you."

A long sigh from her lord husband.

"Did he...?"

"He asked me what I was before I was a maidservant to the Lady Sansa, and did not believe me when I told him that I was a maidservant in Braavos. Then, he attempted to bribe me into leaving King's Landing, and, when I told him that I could not leave my mistress, he threatened me." She certainly sounded nonchalant about all of this.

"Shae." A rustling - Sansa did not know if it was a dress, or papers. She strongly suspected the former, however.

"Don't. I don't want to hear it."

"This is precisely why I wanted you to go, to be safe-"

"And who will keep Sansa Stark safe, when I am gone?"

"I thought you were jealous of my marrying her."

"I've changed my mind. And it wasn't her fault."

"I will. Keep her safe."

Sansa thought of hands on her breast, of wishes for a child, and didn't feel particularly safe at all, not by her husband. Not from him, either.

Shae apparently agreed with the sentiment - she snorted loudly. "I would not leave King's Landing and that girl behind for all of the Lannister gold," she said. "Nor even for you."

Tyrion let out another long sigh, and then murmured, "I should never have brought you to King's Landing. You're certainly not worth the trouble. Most whores have the good sense to only be in it for the money."

Sansa sucked in a breath. She had long suspected, of course, given Shae's almost endless knowledge about men, which she seemed to have no shame in sharing, and her long looks toward Tyrion.

But to think that a whore had been serving as her handmaiden these last few months...well, she did not know what to think. Shae had been kinder to her than most in King's Landing, and she could hardly fault the woman for her previous profession, even if her lady mother would have been horrified to hear of that.

It took her a moment to realize that she had lost part of the conversation, and she wondered again if she should simply announce herself, despite the fact that they had been talking about her and that she was such a pitiful liar that she was unsure she would be able to hide her knowledge of the conversation.

And then Shae was speaking again.

"Your father is terrifying."

"I am well aware of that. Shae-"

"I carry a knife with me," Shae informed him, as she had once informed Sansa. She shivered as she remembered that battle, remembered what Shae had intended the knife for, how she had thought that she could never imagine doing such a thing to herself when Shae had told her of it. "He won't be able to hurt me."

"You are hardly fit to take on Lannister guards-"

"I didn't mean that."

There was a long pause after that, and, even though Sansa could not see them, she thought it felt pained.

"Varys' offer to go to Essos-"

Shae cut him off easily. "I'm not going to Essos alone. If you bring it up again, I'll slit your throat, my lord Lannister."

Another long pause. “Very well, milady.”

There were other sounds then, and Sansa, though she had never witnessed such things herself, recognized them for what they were and moved away from the door with a sigh, resolving to go to the libraries once more if she could not have her harp now.

Chapter Text

Lady Leonette had taught Sansa the high harp, and she had enjoyed it, at the time, her fingers running over the strings as if they were born to such a practice, as Lady Leonette had told her when she taught her.

Lady Leonette had returned to Highgarden with her husband Ser Garlan now, but had insisted on commissioning a harp for Sansa, before she left.

It had arrived just days after Sansa's wedding to Tyrion, and she had not felt inclined to play it then, for there were no pretty songs to sing then. She had wanted it destroyed, but had suspected that Shae had refused to follow such orders, and now that was confirmed.

It was beautiful.

Made of gold, and she wondered if it was pure gold, if the Tyrells were really so wealthy as all of that, when the Lannisters could barely produce enough gold for the Crown before them, it sat in the corner of the little room beneath the sheet Shae had thrown over it, not even dusty.

Sansa reached out, plucking at one of the strings and gasping as the note resounded through Lord Tyrion's chambers.

It would have been more beautiful, somewhere more open.

Sansa's mind's eye instantly saw the royal gardens, and she called out for a servant.

"I need you to carry this harp to the royal gardens," Sansa instructed him. "Find a place for me to play where I will not be interrupted."

The servant hesitated, and then nodded. "Of course, my lady. If you will follow me."

Sansa nodded, standing to her feet and following after the servant, feeling a worry over the harp that she did not know it was still in her to feel for inanimate objects when he accidentally scraped it against the door.

"My apologies, my lady," he said, glancing back at her, and Sansa simply nodded her head, hardly able to show more concern than that.

The servant led her out into a secluded part of the gardens, where she found herself surrounded by beautiful white roses, and Sansa sat down on a little bench that he acquired for her in front of her high harp, knowing that she could not send him away for propriety's sake, but wanting nothing more than to be alone in the gardens while she played.

She reached out, hands flittering over the strings, before glancing back at the servant. Pod, she thought his name. He'd been honored after the Battle of Blackwater, and still dutifully served her husband, and she still barely knew his name.

"Turn away," she ordered him, and he blinked at her, before doing as he was told.

Somehow, it helped.

She began to stroke the strings of the harp, her fingers idle, for they brought her back to a time when she was not the last surviving Stark despite herself, and, for a few moments, she was almost happy.

And then her finger stuck on a string that made a particularly bad sound, and that moment vanished.

She sighed, glancing up to see that Pod was still standing dutifully with his back to her; hand on the pommel of his sword as he guarded her.

She wondered if he thought that such theatrics would actually be useful, if one of the Kingsguard came and demanded that she be dragged before Joffrey and beaten again. If he thought that anyone in King's Landing could genuinely protect her.

And then she thought of a song that Lady Leonette had taught her, while she had remained in King's Landing, one of the first that she had taught Sansa, for it was simple enough in melody and sweet and short.

She began running her fingers over the strings of the harp again, idly attempting to pick up the tune.

After a while, she saw Pod straighten out of the corner of her eyes, but she ignored it; if Joffrey or anyone else wanted her presence, they would wait until she had finished this song or they would drag her away from the harp.

She had a sudden image in her mind of Joffrey stomping the harp into bits, and her fingers faltered.

"You're playing it wrong," a voice said behind her, making Sansa startle.

But she did not have the time to pull away before Margaery's soft, lily white hands were suddenly wrapping around her own, manipulating her fingers into the right positions, and Sansa swallowed as she felt the rest of Margaery's body slide onto the seat behind her, press up against her back, so close that she could feel the warm heat of Margaery beneath her gown.

"Your Grace-"

"Please, Sansa, how many times must I tell you to call me Margaery?" Margaery's voice whispered teasingly in her ear, and Sansa bit back a laugh, remembering Cersei's face throughout that entire ordeal.

"At least once more," she promised, and could feel Margaery's smile, even though she could not see it. "I'm playing it wrong?"

"Oh, yes," Margaery agreed, seemingly dragged back to the topic at hand. "You're far too stiff, Sansa. This song is meant to celebrate, not to cause illness."

Despite herself, Sansa giggled, attempting to loosen herself up for the sake of the song. "Is my playing causing illness to you, Margaery?"

Margaery didn't pause for a moment. "It will, if you continue in such a way. Your fingers are dancing, Sansa, not posturing."

"And you can tell the difference, in the sound?" Sansa asked, raising a brow and half-turning to face her. She stopped when she realized how close they were, blushing and turning around once more.

"Yes. It's a melody, Sansa, not a dirge. The sound must resonate, deep in your bones, must go on long after your fingers have stopped touching those strings. You must play the harp, Sansa, not allow it to play you."

Margaery's voice was melodious, but it seemed to Sansa that there was something more to her words then than just the explanation of how to play a song.

Her fingers began to stroke at the strings as Margaery had suggested, allowing them to ring out longer than she had before, as she asked, “Will it always be like this?"

Margaery seemed to be watching her performance with something bordering on fascination. "Much better. Like what?"

"Will you always be telling me one thing and meaning another?" Sansa blurted out, her words concealed, she hoped, from any listeners by the tinkling of the music.

Behind her, Margaery had gone rather stiff. "I have always attempted to be as honest with you as I can, Sansa. But we don't live in the world of this song, or any other, and so I cannot always be."

Sansa thought about that for a moment, head cocked, before she sighed. "I suppose that is all one can ask of another, in Westeros."

Margaery gave her a half-smile. "You've stopped playing with your left hand."

Sansa jumped, glancing down at her hands, her right still playing out a melody while her left rested stiffly against the strings, forcing away any sound that her right might have accomplished.

"So I have," she whispered thickly. "Forgive me, Margaery, I am not very good."

Margaery sent her a long look. "That is not what my goodsister Leonette told me, before she left for Highgarden."

Sansa flushed. "An exaggeration born of courtesy, no doubt."

Margaery lifted a brow. "Are you implying that my goodsister is a liar?" she asked, and Sansa could not tell if she was teasing, or not.

"No," she denied hurriedly, just in case, "I would never-"

But that was just the problem, wasn't it? The Tyrells had promised their friendship, had promised to make her part of their family and send her away to Highgarden, far away from these wicked Lannisters.

And, when the time came for them to stand by her, they had not.

"I think you are as good as my goodsister said you were," Margaery went on, when Sansa had not gone on for some time. "You are just distracted today." She smiled brightly. "Perhaps you should continue another time. Would you care to have tea in the gardens with myself and my lady grandmother? I was just headed there when I saw you."

Sansa swallowed. "I wouldn't wish to intrude-"

"Nonsense," Margaery brushed this aside. "My grandmother despairs of entertaining the same company over and over, I am sure." She paused. "I would...greatly like to spend some more time with you. To make up for the time that I have not."

Sansa stood, brushing down her skirts. "Well, I suppose my lord husband will not need me for the rest of the afternoon."

Margaery clapped her hands together. "Perfect," she said, gesturing for a servant to take away Sansa's harp, and Sansa hoped that the serving boy would know to deliver it to her chambers once more.

"Do you play?" Sansa asked as they walked, and then flushed when she realized what a foolish question it was. Of course Margaery played, or she would not have been able to say the instructions she had.

Margaery, however, simply gave her an indulgent smile. "We at Highgarden all learned the high harp when we were quite young," she said smoothly. "My brother Garlan and I had a knack for it, but I confess that it isn't quite interesting enough of a pass time, for me. My mind wanders, as yours did today."

Sansa nodded. "It is quite a lovely instrument though, and sometimes, it's nice to have one's mind on other thoughts."

Margaery lifted a brow at her, but, when she spoke again, it was no longer of harps. "I confess I had an ulterior motive for wishing to speak with you, Sansa." Sansa could not find it within her to be surprised by this. "Joffrey is looking for you, I understand, and I wished to spare you that. I hope that it was not too untoward, my doing so."

Sansa blinked, feeling foolish for her uncharitable thoughts. "I...Thank you," she whispered out, and Margaery grinned at her.

"And, besides, my grandmother has remarked that she grows bored of me. Apparently," Margaery's voice dropped into the perfect imitation of the old woman, "One grows boring after they've been married, and all through it."

Sansa smiled. "She certainly has a way of letting everyone know her thoughts and getting away with it."

That elicited a laugh from her companion. "Indeed, she does. A special talent for it, I understand, bourn of respect and old age. I don't think any of us could claim the same."

Had it always been this easy to talk to Margaery? Sansa couldn't tell.

"Perhaps we will, when we have reached her age," Sansa suggested, and Margaery gave her a long look that she could not quite decipher, before smiling grandly.

"I certainly hope so. I look up to my grandmother in all things, and above all, aspire to be most like her," she confided, and Sansa could not say that she was surprised by the admission.

They reached the pavilion where Lady Olenna seemed to spend most of her time, when she was not abed as Margaery had suggested she often was.

The old woman was sitting with several of the Tyrell ladies, who were intently sewing and looking as though they would do anything to escape drawing the old woman's notice.

A bard was standing in the corner, singing a melancholy dirge that reminded Sansa of the song she had been attempting today, before Margaery had reconciled her with it.

"Lady Sansa," The Queen of Thorns greeted when Sansa arrived, and Sansa dipped into a curtsey. "Go on, girls, I've had quite enough of sewing for one week," she snapped at her relatives, who jumped to their feet and looked only too happy to flee the gardens.

Olenna sent them a rather amused glance that Margaery seemed to share, before turning her attentions on Sansa once more.

"Forgive an old lady her intrusive questions on the other day- one must play a part even when they are old enough to not know whether their farts smell of roses or not. Sit, and have tea with me now."

"Grandmother!" Margaery scolded, sounding scandalized, and something about that made Sansa crack a smile as she sat and reached for one of the tea cups, remembering the last time she had been here, speaking of Joffrey and his vileness.

Her hands began to shake, and Margaery handed her a small cloth from where she had perched on one of the empty seats beside her. "For the heat," she said, when Sansa raised a brow at her.

She was grateful for it, nonetheless, and wrapped the cloth around the tiny neck of the cup as the bard continued his singing

"Oh, she knows perfectly well what I am now, and I am not going to hide it for her delicate sensibilities when there is no one else to overhear," Olenna said dismissively, taking a sip of her tea and grimacing. "Disgusting stuff. Do the Lannisters know what passes for tea in the rest of Westeros, or do they just assume that their massive egos make up for the taste of horseshit?"

Sansa, who had been about to take a sip, snorted and nearly spilled the stuff all over herself.

Margaery leaned forward, holding out a cloth from the table as though she intended to wipe it up herself.

"For Gods' sake, Margaery, let a servant do it," Olenna muttered, gesturing one over with a wave of her wrinkly hand, "Isn't that one of the demands of a queen? To let others do anything that might get them dirty?"

Margaery lifted a brow, handing the servant the cloth and allowing her to do the embarrassing job of wiping at the small spill in Sansa's lap.

"I haven't found that being a queen has been very different at all from being Lady Margaery," Margaery confessed, with a put-upon sigh.

Olenna's tea cup rattled loudly as she slammed it back down onto it's small plate, and Sansa jumped a little.

"That is because you are not the queen," she corrected her granddaughter. "That designation belongs to the shrew, Cersei."

Sansa's eyes widened, and she glanced around in horror, saw that none of the servants attending them looked at all surprised by the Queen of Thorns' words.

Margaery's lower lip jutted out in what could almost be considered a pout, if Sansa didn't know any better. "I am married to the King; she is the Queen Mother."

Olenna raised a hand, as though this argument was inconsequential. "You are not a queen while she still pretends herself to be a queen," she muttered, clearly not convinced. "But, enough of that." She turned in her seat to give Sansa a long look, and Sansa, despite the scrutiny, was rather relieved to be changing the subject.

She understood what Margaery had said, that they must all do what they could simply to survive, and that, for the Tyrells, that was a very different sort of plotting than it was for Sansa, but it still unnerved her, to hear of their plotting now, after knowing that they had plotted about her.

Their conversation had turned into one like the mummers’ shows that had gone on before she and Margaery had reconciled, and Sansa did not care to remember those.

"Margaery tells me that the Lannisters have been giving you no end of grief since the Old Lion told your lord husband there must be an heir."

Sansa looked at Margaery in alarm, before remembering that Margaery had been there, when Joffrey had threatened to rape her, had laughed about Tyrion doing so, and a dwarven babe.

"I...yes," she whispered, her tea cup rattling so loudly she feared that she would break it.

Olenna clucked her tongue. "Disgraceful, the lot of them. Any true nobility would know better."

"Grandmother, we speak of our own matters within our house in much the same free manner," Margaery reproached.

Olenna raised a brow at her. "Not at all the same, nor do we pressure young girls to give birth before they've been married yet long. Speaking of which, your brother Garlan's wife, who is hardly young, is pregnant yet again. At this rate we'll have no need of either you or your brother Willas to have children at all."

Sansa choked, for the teasing reminded her, even if it was hardly of the same subject, of that lighthearted teasing between her siblings, back in Winterfell, before all of this.

She frowned, for most such teasing took place between Jon and Robb and Theon.

Margaery half-smirked; apparently this was an argument that she could afford to let go. "She has a name, Grandmother."

Olenna waved a hand. "She's altogether too boring to bother remembering it," she muttered. "If my son weren't a fool, he would have at least married Garlan to a woman capable of more than siring sons, and with a bit of wit between her ears. Anyway, by the time we're celebrating another Summer Feast, I'm sure there'll be another on the way."

"Grandmother! They are your great-grandchildren," Margaery admonished softly. "You ought to get to know them."

"I only bothered to get to know you and your brothers when you were of an age not to be annoying, mindless little creatures," Olenna said dismissively. "I shall do the same with these, if I live that long."

Sansa coughed, and the two glanced at her.

"Forgive us, Sansa," Margaery said with a warm smile, "Sometimes we forget that we are not commoners, to gossip away so."

Sansa shook her head. "I don't...I don't mind," she said finally, and, in truth, she did not. She could remember a time when harmless gossip had been fun, when it hadn't ruined lives, and this was not about her.

Lady Olenna's assessment of Lady Leonette had not been wrong, after all. While she had been grateful to the woman for teaching her to play the harp, she had wondered at the woman's constant ability to speak of nothing but music and children, wondered if she even realized the dangers of life in Westeros.

Lady Olenna and Margaery exchanged a look, and then Lady Olenna shouted, "Boy! Bring some more of those lemon cakes."

And then, to the singer in the corner whom Sansa had barely even realized was there, his melancholic tune was so soft, "Can't you sing something else? If I have to hear another rendition of something that sounds like The Rains of Castamere, I shall throw myself off of this cliff."

"Grandmother!"

Sansa rather agreed with the sentiment, she thought, as she watched the singer fumble for a moment, looking shocked, before bursting into a song about birds and flowers and beauty.

Olenna waited for a moment, before nodding. "Much better," she muttered under her breath, causing Sansa to smile slightly.

She had missed this, she thought. She knew that the Tyrells had had plots within plots for including her in any of their conversations, and a part of her was still worried that Margaery's intentions toward her were more than they seemed, but the Queen of Thorns' ability to say anything she pleased always got a small smile out of Sansa, even if she was also secretly terrified out of her wits about whom might overhear.

"There," Olenna said, when the serving boy had brought those desired lemon cakes. "Eat up, Sansa, before you waste away entirely."

Sansa blushed, reaching out and picking up a lemon cake to nibble on.

She hardly noticed the way that Margaery watched her bring the cake to her lips, eating scarcely a few crumbs before setting it down once more, nor the way that Margaery's lips pinched as she did so.

Chapter Text

"Little dove," Cersei said, with that charming smile that never failed to strike terror in Sansa, from the moment she had learned what Cersei and her son really were. The smile meant she wanted something, something that only Sansa could give her. “Come and sit with me."

And Sansa had precious little left over to give.

"Your Grace," she said warily, stepping forward because it was expected of her and sitting on the ledge the Queen Mother had taken up position at beside her, as the woman gestured for her to do.

Two of Cersei's Kingsguard were standing at the end of the hall, their backs to Cersei and Sansa, and Sansa swallowed a bit, wondering why the Queen Mother had taken up her own guard in the balcony before the throne room.

She looked ever so much like a lion, laying in wait for her next victim.

"I have news from the Vale that you should hear, Lady Sansa," Cersei said coolly, and Sansa's heart stuttered in her chest. Her aunt Lysa was dead, her cousin, Lord Baelish, her only supporter here in King's Landing.

Well, perhaps not her only supporter.

"Sansa?" a voice said, and Sansa forced herself to look up.

"Yes, Your Grace?" she whispered hoarsely.

Cersei arched a brow. "You don't wish to hear my news?"

Sansa gulped. "I...Of course."

"Your aunt Lysa has finally agreed to the terms Lord Baelish put to her, on behalf of himself and the Crown. She has sworn her allegiance to House Baelish," she looked annoyed as she said those words, for some reason, "As well as to Joffrey, and they've haggled out the difference between themselves. Your aunt and Lord Baelish have no doubt had a happy wedding ceremony, by now, content in their abilities to haggle like fishwives at market."

Sansa wondered, idly, if she was going to be sick.

She wondered if it would have been better to learn that her last living relatives in the Vale were dead, that Lord Baelish was dead.

Instead, they had sworn allegiance to the Lannisters, the very people responsible for killing her mother, her father, Robb.

"I..."

"Aren't you happy for your aunt, sweet dove?" Cersei asked, the parody of a curious look on her face, and Sansa remembered who she was with.

Remembered that she was playing a part, to survive in this horrid place.

"Yes, Your Grace," she said softly. "Very happy. I hope that she and Lord Baelish will be good for one another."

Cersei laughed, low and cold, and took a long gulp from the glass of wine in her other hand. "I sometimes forget, Lady Sansa, that you are of the North. You have acclimated yourself so well to things here in the South. But," and here she reached out, taking Sansa's cheek in her hand. Sansa forced herself not to stiffen at the touch. "You are so innocent still, in some ways, despite what I have attempted to teach you of our lives here."

Sansa could not help but bristle at those words, though she did so underneath her skin, where Cersei could not see and punish her for it, or tell Joffrey of it.

"You have been most generous to me, Your Grace, despite my un-deservedness," she said instead, lowering her eyes.

Cersei gave her a long look, and then let go of her, smoothing out her Dornish red gown idly. "I noticed you the other day walking the Keep with Queen Margaery and several of her ladies. I see that you've found a new friend and counselor in her, now."

Sansa froze, and, had her Septa not taught her to keep courtesy even in her own mind, might have cursed at the foolishness in doing so, for no doubt Cersei had seen, if the way she was looking at her now was any indication.

It occurred to her then, that she was playing the game, just as everyone else in King's Landing did so. Hers was a different game; her survival was more questionable, and so she must smile and keep her own counsel, but it was no different than the games the others played, only with higher stakes and less care.

She hadn't wanted to marry the cripple of Highgarden because she cared for him, having never met him, but because she wanted to use the Tyrells to leave King's Landing. Anywhere was better than here.

She remembered what Margaery had once told her. Women in our position must make the best of our circumstances.

She froze, and wondered if the Tyrells had frozen, when they'd allowed Lord Tywin to marry her to Lord Tyrion instead of taking her for Willas Tyrell, when they'd had the chance.

It had been a misstep, on their part.

Just as allowing Cersei to think anything of her friendship with Margaery was a misstep of her own.

Margaery had not yet miss stepped with Joffrey, but Sansa knew that it was only a matter of time. Perhaps she would not, though that was unlikely, for she had not made the mistakes that Sansa, had while she had once thought to be his queen.

But Sansa was just as far in the game as Margaery, now, and she shouldn't begrudge the other woman for surviving, as Margaery had referred to it. Not when Sansa was doing just the same, and far more poorly.

"The Queen has been most kind to me since she arrived in King's Landing," Sansa said neutrally.

Cersei raised a brow. "I asked you once before what you thought of her," she said. "Whether there was anything within her brain. I am still uncertain on the matter. Perhaps you might enlighten me now?"

Sansa licked her lips. "The Queen is...very kind," she said finally, and thought of how Margaery had been the one to approach her, when the Tyrells hoped to marry her to Willas. How she had spoken of treason and wanting Joffrey dead as badly Sansa did without batting an eyelash. "But I think that she would not be queen now, were it not for her grandmother and father."

Cersei stared at her for a long moment, and then laughed. "Perhaps you have learned something during your time in King's Landing, Lady Sansa. Thank you, my dear one."

She stood then, and the smile froze on her face as she walked away from Sansa with two Kingsguard behind her, as if she had completely forgotten Sansa's presence there at the moment of her standing.

Sansa hoped that she had helped Margaery, in causing the Queen Mother to underestimate her, rather than harmed her.

She may be still uncertain in her feelings for Margaery, but she did not want to see the other girl die at Cersei's hands, she knew that much.

Chapter Text

Margaery had told her that it was dangerous for them to spend too much time together, for, although Margaery was the Queen and could protect her from most of that danger, if Cersei became suspicious of their friendship, she would most certainly find a means to end it.

Sansa had not quite worked out what she had meant by 'suspicious' save for perhaps that Cersei would think their friendship was part of some elaborate plot, but she understood well enough that Cersei would do anything to destroy her own happiness, as would Joffrey, and that she still held quite a lot of power as the Queen Mother.

Still, she thought that it was worth risking, telling Margaery that the Queen Mother was asking Sansa about her, at every opportunity. If Cersei was plotting something, then Margaery needed to know.

She made her way to Margaery's chambers, the ones in the Maidenvault, for she did not wish to run the risk of finding Joffrey within, and knocked on the door.

There was no answer for some time, and so Sansa knocked again, a bit more insistently this time, with her mind made up that if no one answered she would simply return to her chambers before she brought attention to herself.

The door swung open, and Lady Reanna's startled face met her own.

"Lady Sansa," she said, blinking at her. Sansa noticed her tuck something in the pocket of her lime green gown. "What are you doing here?"

Sansa raised a brow. "I was coming to see Margaery," she said, a tad defensive, mostly due to the other girl's defensiveness.

"Queen Margaery is in the Sept of Baelor, praying that the gods will bless her with a child, and for her husband the King," Lady Reanna told her, rather primly. "She has been there for the better part of the morning. I could tell her that you called?"

Sansa blinked at her, and then shook her head. "That is all right," she said. "I was just on my way to the Sept."

A lie, of course, but she did not want Margaery to think that something was wrong.

Lady Reanna raised a brow. "The Queen requested that she not be disturbed."

Sansa considered asking which Queen, but decided that it was not worth the headache the thought of even a hint of her disloyalty might cause. She simply nodded. "Of course. Then I shall not disturb her."

Lady Reanna cast her a dubious look, and then walked out of Margaery's bedchambers, shutting the door rather pointedly behind her.

Sansa remembered then, the strange conversation she had caught between Cersei and Lady Reanna, and wondered at the girl's strange behavior now.

Something about it did not sit right with her.

She left Lady Reanna at the staircase leading out of the Maidenvault, and made her way to the Sept of Baelor, hoping against hope that no one else would be within the Sept alongside Margaery.

She had no wish to dip her head and smile to Joffrey's words today, not after having been forced to do so already for Cersei.

She was fortunate then, to find that there were precious few within the Sept, beyond the priests there and Margaery and her retinue, which included the Lady Elinor whom Sansa had met the other day.

Had she not already been told by Lady Reanna however, the smallfolk standing in droves outside the Sept, waving their hands and shouting out to their beloved queen would have informed her of Margaery's presence within.

Margaery always seemed to be drawing such crowds, whether she walked among the smallfolk or not. And it was a good attention, not the attention that Sansa was used to hearing about from the smallfolk.

Everyone loved Margaery. Even Joffrey.

"Lady Sansa!" Margaery's melodious voice broke her out of these musings, the other girl turning from where she had been kneeling to give Sansa a small smile. "How lovely to see you here," she said loudly. "Come and pray with me."

The High Septon, where he stood almost leering at Margaery, nodded his head in approval at these words, and Sansa wondered if he had even noticed her recent absence from the Sept.

She moved to stand next to Margaery, smiling nervously. "I actually came to speak with you. Lady Reanna told me that you were here."

Margaery's features darkened at the mention of the girl's name, and Sansa wondered if she too had noticed Reannas's behaviors. Her next words, however, killed that possibility. "Ah yes. I left Lady Reanna to attend to my chambers. She has been late every day this week to her duties, and I like to think myself a lenient mistress, but certain things must be punished, don't you agree?"

Sansa thought of Joffrey, thought of the words that Margaery had spoken to her about surviving him, and wondered if Margaery was thinking of them, too. "Yes," she said, voice rather small.

Margaery smiled. "I'm glad; I don't want to seem cruel to anyone, but especially not to you."

Sansa shook her head. "I don't think anyone could ever think that about you," she said softly.

"You did."

Sansa's head snapped up, and Margaery sent her a pained smile.

"I know that you did, when I first married Joffrey, before I could explain myself to you. I saw the way you would look at me sometimes, when you thought I wasn't looking at you."

Sansa ducked her head. "I thought he'd corrupted you, somehow."

Margaery reached out, lifting her chin and staring into her eyes. "Joffrey may be the King, and capable of many things, but I have never yet met someone powerful enough to change another's base nature, Sansa."

Sansa flushed, pulling away, unused to the close contact and yet yearning it all the same. Still, she did not like that Margaery was touching her so in front of so many people, although she could not explain why.

And then she remembered why she had come to the Sept in the first place.

"Cersei has been asking questions about you," she blurted out.

Margaery nodded, not looking at all surprised. "My ladies have reported the same. What did you tell her?"

Sansa flushed. "I told her that you were very pretty, and that was all."

Margaery barked out a laugh, earning only a partially stern look from the High Septon before he returned to his prayers.

Sansa blushed further. "I'm sorry, I just...I didn't want her to think you were plotting against her, and become wary of you."

Margaery shook her head. "No, don't apologize. I think that was a good idea." She reached out, as if to touch Sansa's chin again, before her hand fell loosely to her side once more. "Thank you, Sansa."

Sansa nodded. "Of course. Have I interrupted your prayers?"

"Yes," Margaery said, flashing her a grin, "But I don't mind, and I am sure that the gods will forgive us, this once."

"I didn't know that you..." Sansa did not quite know how to finish that sentence without sounding insulting. It reminded her of the time she had spoken to Loras here, had learned of his very real worries for his sister.

Margaery smiled, taking the words gracefully, to her credit. "The gods are always with us," she told Sansa. "And I have always felt a connection to the Mother. My mother often told me the story of how she prayed for a girl for many years, and the Mother finally answered her prayer with me." She noticed the surprised look on Sansa's face. "Not very pragmatic of course, to wish for a daughter instead of sons, but then, my mother hardly ever is that."

That surprised a laugh out of Sansa. "And what do you pray for now?" she asked quietly.

Margaery thought for a moment before answering. "For a son," she said finally. "I suppose it is not the most original prayer, nor am I as silly as my mother, to pray for a girl child, much as I might prefer one."

"You are the Queen," Sansa said, with a little nod.

Margaery gave her a long look. "I have always found boys to be...how shall I say it? Not as pragmatic as us females. As long as you have one, the line will continue, but they are not much use beyond that. I would prefer a girl child, even if it would disappoint the realm, because then I would know that...well, I would know that she would live."

"You could teach your son to live," Sansa said quietly.

Margaery nodded carefully. "Yes, but even if my son learns everything I can teach him, I do not know that he would take it to hear forever."

"I would like for us to be friends again," Sansa said, and Margaery's eyes widened in surprise. "Real friends, like we were before...all this."

Sansa did not think that she had ever seen Margaery surprised by anything; her eyes widened, and her face slackened a bit, as though she was half-stepping out from behind a mask which she quickly hid behind once more, and her mouth puckered.

Sansa thought that she looked strangely beautiful, in the way the ladies of the North did. Free.

"I would like that very much," she told Sansa, once she had recovered herself, reaching out and squeezing Sansa's hands. "Although I did not know that we weren't," she admitted.

Sansa swallowed. "Something has been holding me back, and...I would like to apologize. It was naive of me to think that a wedding to Willas should only benefit myself, or that anyone in King's Landing would survive a day without doing as they must, as I myself have done every day that I've faced Cersei and Joffrey with a smile. I understand."

Margaery's eyes widened. "Sansa-"

"People die all of the time, and if you aren't careful, anyone could be next. And you, Margaery...you are the closest thing to a friend I've had in King's Landing, even if I failed to understand you before. You...shouldn't die, just because of Joffrey. So, I understand, and let us speak no more of it," Sansa went on quietly, giving Margaery's hands a little squeeze in return. "For...I don't think I can."

Margaery hesitated, looking torn, and then nodded. "All right," she murmured, with a quirking smile. "Then we shan't."

Chapter Text

In the days to follow, Sansa found herself spending most of her time in Margaery's presence, despite the other girl's warnings about safety.

Safety be damned. She had not been safe since she arrived in King's Landing.

Her lord husband seemed pleased with the arrangement, even if he had not outright said so. He seemed to be walking on needles about her, ever since his mentioning that he thought it would be best if they had a child, for which she was rather relieved, but when every morning at the break of fast she mentioned that she would be spending some of her day with Margaery, he would smile a little and tell her that he was glad to hear it.

She did not know if this was because he was glad to know she would not be getting into trouble with Cersei or Joffrey, or because he was relieved to hear that she had some friend with her now.

Of course, this did not mean that she was free of Joffrey or Cersei. In fact, she found herself even more burdened by Joffrey's presence than usual, though at least Margaery's influence meant that the burden was not so taxing as before.

And Cersei seemed to take every opportunity to avoid Margaery that she could. It was not hard to imagine why.

"What are we doing today?" Sansa asked after being let into Margaery's chambers by a rather sourfaced Reanna, smiling shyly when Margaery turned and grinned at her, unashamedly still dressing despite having called out to Reanna to allow Sansa into the room anyway.

Sansa saw a swathe of skin more than she was used to seeing from Margaery before she averted her eyes, blushing.

Despite having grown up with a younger sister who didn't understand the meaning of the word propriety and a slew of brothers, Sansa was still unused to seeing anyone without their clothing, man or woman, and Margaery's comfortableness with her own body was almost disturbing.

Lady Elinor and another Tyrell lady whose name Sansa did not know helped Margaery slip into a light pink, sleeveless gown as she answered.

"I thought we might go down into the city today," she said, with rather too much excitement in her voice for Sansa's comfort.

Sansa remembered the last time she had been down into the city, remembered the riots and how she had nearly been raped by men who did not care whether her last name was Stark or Lannister.

But Margaery had been down into the city almost every week since her arrival in King's Landing, and had emerged the better for it, beloved by the smallfolk and the nobles and guards alike.

She gave Margaery a tremulous smile when Margaery turned and looked at her, after too long a silence. "That sounds...lovely."

There was a knock on the door, and Margaery let out a little sigh, turning to Reanna with a raised brow.

The girl moved over to the door, opening it and then taking an actual step back, face etched in surprise which she quickly hid.

Ser Osmund Kettleblack was standing in the doorway, dressed in his Kingsguard uniform and staring over Reanna's shoulder at Margaery, almost ignoring the girl altogether. "Queen Margaery. I am to report here as your personal guard for the day."

"Ser Osmund," Margaery said, coming to an abrupt halt where before she had been moving toward Sansa. "I did not expect to see you among my honorguard today. Where is my brother Loras?"

Ser Osmund glanced down at the Queen. "Ser Loras has been assigned to King Joffrey this morn, Your Grace. He wishes someone to spar with."

Margaery paled, but quickly hid it behind a smile. "Of course. Well then, Ser Osmund, I suppose you've gotten rather a boring duty. My ladies and the Lady Sansa and I were just about to play come-into-my-castle. You may play it with us, if you like."

Ser Osmund blinked at her. "I will stand guard, Your Grace."

Margaery bit her lip. "Of course."

Sansa wrinkled her brows at Margaery in confusion, but Margaery shook her head minutely, and Sansa did not ask. Perhaps Margaery did not feel as safe in the city alone as she let on, and would not go without her brother by her side, to protect her.

"We will play it in the courtyard near the Maidenvault, I think," Margaery said to her ladies with a clap of her hands, and then, without even a moment's hesitation, reached out to grab Sansa's hand and yanked her out into the hall.

Sansa blanched, and quickly hid it when Margaery glanced her way, allowing the other girl to drag her along without protest, as Margaery's ladies followed behind them.

Sansa had not played come-into-my-castle since she was a young girl, acquiescing to play with Arya but mostly with Jeyne. She found that playing it with Margaery and her ladies reminded her ever so much of being young again, when she'd had nothing to worry over in regards to her future because she could trust her father and mother to take care of it, and, despite the thought that this should bother her, it didn't.

In fact, she rather enjoyed playing the game, right up until the moment when Margaery tripped over Lady Reanna's foot and sprawled forward into the dirt.

Margaery fell with a small, startled cry, twisting her body in a vain attempt to avoid falling as her left arm slammed against a stone pillar while the rest of her body hit the dirt. She gasped, and her ladies appeared to forget the game entirely, rushing forward to see that their queen was well.

After a moment in which Sansa saw genuine pain on the other woman's face, Margaery stood up, giving her ladies a reassuring smile even as she rubbed at her arm.

"I am quite well," she told her ladies. "It is my own fault, I suppose; I am rather old for such games. But we ought to continue, I think."

She looked shamefacedly toward the ground beneath her.

Sansa worried at her lower lip, wondering how much pain Margaery was in, even if it had only been a small fall.

"Perhaps Ser Osmund ought to save Your Grace," Lady Reanna spoke up then, and Sansa blinked at the other girl, who was standing just beside her. "He is a most gallant member of the Kingsguard, after all, and most well suited toward saving damsels. Then you might bow out of the game gracefully, Your Grace."

Margaery blinked toward Ser Osmund, still standing against the far wall but looking rather worried at Margaery's injured arm, which she clutched close to her chest. "If you wouldn't mind, Ser Osmund," she said, sounding rather breathless, though Sansa could not imagine why, for her fall had not seemed to overly tax her beyond the arm.

She supposed that, in some ways, Ser Osmund was an attractive man, and anyone must have been better than Joffrey, but she looked at him and saw only the back of his hand, colliding with her cheek.

Ser Osmund stepped forward, looking a little wrong footed as he glanced at the Lady Reanna before reaching up and placing an arm around Margaery's shoulder, for her to lean on.

Margaery smiled up at him, still rubbing at her arm. "My thanks, Ser Osmund, my gentle hero. It appears I've now won the game, I would say."

Ser Osmund stared down at her for a moment longer than Sansa deemed appropriate, and then murmured that she ought to send for a healer to look at her arm.

Margaery nodded. "Of course. You are most wise, Ser Osmund; I shall do so at once. Lady Sansa, perhaps you could accompany me?"

Sansa blinked, and then stepped forward. "Of course, Your Grace," she said, giving Margaery a little curtsey and trading places with Ser Osmund, who, for the first time that day, looked rather annoyed.

"I am supposed to stay with you at all times, Your Grace," he said then, and Margaery blinked innocently at him, leaning rather heavily on Sansa. "I am your Kingsguard."

Margaery brushed the hair from her eyes. "Of course," she said, in that placating tone that Sansa had sometimes heard her use with Joffrey. "You must accompany us then. Lady Sansa will act as my rock whilst your hands are free in the event that you will need to protect us. I hope that will be sufficient?"

Ser Osmund glanced at Sansa, and then ground out, "Of course, Your Grace."

A Tyrell healer was not far from the courtyard, for it seemed that the Tyrells existed to be of help to one another, regardless of where any one of them was at any particular time, and Margaery and Sansa were ushered into a healing chamber while Ser Osmund was directed, rather firmly, to wait outside.

Margaery's arm, just above the elbow where she had slammed it into the pillar, had bruised, flowering out in blue and purple splotches that made Sansa wince it sympathy, impressed with how Margaery had managed to hide her pain so far, when such bruises must have stung horribly.

She wondered, for an instant, if that was less to do with Margaery's ability to hide her true feelings and more to do with a recently built up tolerance for pain, thanks to Joffrey.

She thought of her own scars, the ones that she did not allow anyone to see, and felt a pang of sympathy for the other girl.

Chapter Text

The gown Margaery wore was a dark purple, sleeveless and yet warm at the same time, solid underneath a sheer covering that rose almost to her throat, though the dress revealed a swathe of porcelain skin where the bodice met her waistline, her hips as lithe and beautiful as always.

Proof, again, that Joffrey was not harming her, not even where he thought it could not be seen.

In fact, Sansa's own gown offered less proof of her own treatment by her husband, covering her from the throat down almost completely.

Still, she was not comforted. The bruise that was already beginning to fade on Margaery's arm stared back at her like a spectre, haunting her.

"Are you unwell, Sansa?" Margaery asked suddenly, stopping in the middle of her walk through the garden path.

Sansa swallowed, shook her head. "I think I ate something bad for the break of fast this morning, that is all."

Margaery sent her a concerned look. "Perhaps we should sit down, rather than walk," she suggested pensively, but Sansa shook her head.

"I think that walking will not harm me further, Your Grace, if that is all right with you," she said quietly, staring down at her hands.

A moment later, Margaery was taking her hands in her own, and Sansa glanced up, startled. "It is not all right with me," she said, voice too gentle, and Sansa wanted to pull away, but did not. "You look like you can barely stand, and I would not mind sitting, myself."

Sansa did not protest further, for she sensed it would be for naught, and she was feeling rather weak, even if she would not admit it to Margaery.

There was a bench, just a few paces further, and Margaery sat down, pulling Sansa beside her.

Margaery's Kingsguard, ever present even when Margaery's ladies were not, took up his guard at the edge of the small alcove where the bench sat, silent with his hands on the pommel of his sword.

Sansa did not feel comforted by that, either.

Ser Osmund was not Margaery’s guard today, and Sansa was rather glad of that, for he'd had a strange look in his eyes as he guarded Margaery that she had never noticed even when he hit her, and she liked it far worse, but it was not Loras either, and so the trip into the city seemed to be permanently placed on hold.

Sansa could not say that she was sorry that it had not been mentioned again.

"Sansa," Margaery said quietly, drawing her attention back to the young queen. "Are you sure that you are well?"

Sansa nodded. "Of course. I...suppose that my mind merely needs for a distraction."

Margaery nodded, folding her hands in her lap. "I too yearn for distractions lately," she said, in a smaller voice than Sansa had ever heard from her.

Sansa swallowed. "I pray that your own prayers to the Seven have been successful," she said, the words tasting bitter in her mouth, for more reasons than one.

Margaery shrugged, plucking a rose from the garden beside their bench and handing it to her. "It is of little matter at this stage," she said serenly. "Joffrey and I have only just recently married, after all, and a child so early would be a strange occurence, though a welcome one, indeed."

Sansa tried to imagine a child of Joffrey's and Margaery's. Her mind's eye would only supply a beautiful blond creature with Margaery's doe eyes and Joffrey's leering smile. She shivered.

"Cold?" Margaery asked, quirking a brow at her.

Sansa shook her head. "I felt a chill on the air, but it is gone now," she answered, hoping that Margaery would not investigate further.

To Sansa's relief, she did not.

Instead, they walked for some time in silence, gowns swishing through the rose gardens, Sansa's occasionally catching on the thorns, until Sansa could bear it no loger and the words came spilling out of her before she could stop them.

"Are you all right?" she asked, and was hard-pressed not to throw her hands over her mouth, blushing furiously. "I'm...I'm sorry," she stammered out. "I didn't mean to..."

Margaery smiled gently at her, squeezing the arm she currently had trapped in her own. "It's all right, my bird. I...am quite well."

Sansa thought of the many threats that Joffrey had thrown her way, while they were engaged and even afterwards, of the many horrible things he planned to do with her once he'd had his wicked way with her, barely suppressing a flinch.

She could not imagine how Margaery could be all right, if she had been subjected to any of those things.

"Oh, my sweet girl," Margaery said suddenly, glancing at Sansa in understanding, "Have you been so worried for me all this time?"

Sansa looked away.

Margaery sighed. "That explains rather much. I am quite well, my dear. You may rest assured that Joffrey has never done anything to me that I have not wanted him to. He is a most considerate husband."

Sansa wondered if she looked green, by the way Margaery's eyes widened and she quickly went on, "Perhaps 'wanted' is too strong a word, but I have not been hurt by him, Sansa. He has done his duty by me as my husband and king, and I have done my duty as his wife and queen. Nothing more, nothing less. There. Does that sate you?"

Sansa stared at her for a moment, wondered if she would ever be sated until she had seen Margaery lain bare and knew that there was not a bruise on her, and then blushed, at such a thought.

Margaery started walking again, and Sansa hurried to keep up with her, still blushing and finding herself unable to meet Margaery's eyes.

"You're blushing," Margaery commented then, taking in Sansa's sorry state, and only causing her to blush more deeply. She smiled gently. "I only wished to console you, not embarrass you. Perhaps we ought to speak of something else, then."

"Yes," Sansa echoed, glad for the excuse, "Perhaps we ought."

Chapter Text

"We've received another message that the Boltons are helping the Freys to defeat the Blackfish," Joffrey said with a grin, linking his arm with Sansa's and practically dragging her along beside him.

Sansa bit her tongue so hard that she tasted blood. She should not have attempted to go alone to the library again, but Margaery had sent her a regretful message that her grandmother wished to speak with her alone.

"That is good, Your Grace."

He smirked. "You must be so sad," he said, reaching out and flicking at the hair by her ears, "To know that bastard Snow will inherit Winterfell, instead of you and the little brat Lannister you'll give my uncle. Did you know they'd taken Winterfell, after your stupid brother met his end?"

Sansa swallowed hard, for Joffrey only informed her of it twice a day, when she was unfortunate enough to have gained his notice. "Yes, Your Grace."

The King had only tormented her with the news since, after all.

"They say that the Bolton bastard is insane," Joffrey said with a grin, and Sansa wondered at this, for she knew no one more insane than Joffrey himself. "And that he sleeps in your bitch mother's chambers, in her bed." He giggled. "Did you know?"

Sansa felt her face heat with an anger she was not sure she could control, if Joffrey kept on like this. "No, Your Grace."

She had thought that anyone else living in Winterfell besides the Lannisters would be a welcome thing, but the thought of anyone as insane as Joffrey soiling her mother's bed every night...she shivered.

Joffrey laughed.

"Perhaps, when you give my uncle a little lordling, we'll take Winterfell back from those stupid Boltons and give it to your brat," Joffrey said, with a menacing grin. "Would you like that, Sansa?"

Sansa bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, pretended not to notice when Joffrey's eyes seemed drawn to it, though inside she had gone quite cold at the sight. "Yes, Your Grace."

His grin widened, and his eyes went back to her own. "I'm glad," he said. "I'd like to visit you soon and give you the little lordling before my uncle does. We don't want you dying before you see a Lannister in Winterfell, after all. It just wouldn't be fair."

Sansa was quite sure that she had gone pale at those words, considering Joffrey's laugh, but she didn't get the chance to think up a suitable response. Nor did she think that she would have been able to, had she had the chance.

She likely would have told Joffrey that she would very much rather be dead, and he would have obliged her, perhaps.

Prince Oberyn appeared behind her, dipping into a bow for Joffrey before reaching out and taking hold of Sansa's arm. She might have shook him off in any other instance, for it was quite improper of him to do so, but she was far too shaken herself to attempt such a thing.

"Your Grace, I wonder if I might steal the Lady Sansa away from you for a time?" he asked, sending Joffrey a winning smile. "My lady Ellaria has something that she wishes to discuss with her. Lady Sansa?" he held his arm out to her, and, for a moment, Sansa stopped breathing.

Joffrey stared, open-mouthed. "But...but...I am in the middle of punishing her," he said, finally, looking irritated but not angry, not yet.

Prince Oberyn dipped his head. "Of course, and I would not have interrupted had my lady not intimated to me that the matter was one of importance. The demands on a woman's mind are far beyond me, but I do believe it had to do with a Dornish gown for the Lady in question. Lady Sansa."

His voice was more insistent this time; it was not a request, and, after another tentative look at Joffrey, Sansa took Prince Oberyn's arm, allowed him to bow her to their king and then lead her away, leaving Joffrey gaping after them.

She did not dare to speak until they had rounded the corner and left Joffrey behind for good.

"Prince Oberyn," Sansa breathed, "That was quite inappropriate."

Oberyn grinned at her slyly. "Was it? My lady Ellaria truly does wish to speak with you, at some point while she is in King's Landing."

"Lady Ellaria is not above the King," Sansa bit out, glancing worriedly behind her, oddly unnerved when she found that no one was following them.

Oberyn still looked amused. "I happen to think she is."

"Regardless," Sansa said, trying not to sound amused herself, "A married woman being escorted by a man such as yourself is hardly appropriate."

Oberyn stopped then, in the middle of the hall, sending her a concerned look and forcing Sansa to come to a stop as well. "Do I scare you so, Lady Sansa?" he asked, voice too gentle, and Sansa almost felt tears pricking at her eyes.

She started walking once more, hesitant until she heard his steps behind her. "You are a man, and much larger than I," she answered, and hoped that it was answer enough.

Oberyn's hands clenched into fists, and Sansa, still smarting from the blow that Ser Meryn had dealt her, flinched. He noticed at once, and lowered his hands, palms flat. "I did not mean to startle you, my lady."

Sansa shrugged eloquently. "I do not like surprises, of any kind. They tend to make me...jumpy, I suppose." She gave a nervous little laugh, for the benefit of the courtier walking past them.

Oberyn followed her gaze. "I can well imagine why. My apologies again, my lady."

Sansa shook her head. "It was not your doing."

"Nor for any fault of your own," Oberyn said, voice back to that gentle tone that both soothed and bothered her.

She thought wildly for a way to change the subject. Fortunately, her thoughts from before Joffrey's unwelcome interruption were quick to the surface.

For a moment, she let the fear creep up in her that Oberyn did not intend to take her from here at all, that he was merely a Lannister plant to trick her into speaking against the King, so that they could finally kill her.

But then she remembered that the Lannisters wanted a baby of her, not treason, and she remembered the look in Oberyn's eyes when he had spoken with Joffrey, just now, as though Joffrey were not a king, but a pest and a naughty child, and she asked the question she had wanted to for some time, now.

"How?"

Oberyn patted Sansa's arm, nodding to the nobles they passed as they walked. "How, what?"

Sansa sent him a look of annoyance. "How will you take me from King's Landing, as you promised? The Lannisters will never let me go, they will never let you take me."

Oberyn grinned. "You don't trust me yet?"

"I told you, I don't like surprises," Sansa said coldly. "And you have given me no reason to so far."

"Does he do that often?" Oberyn asked, and Sansa blinked up at him in confusion.

"Often?" she repeated dumbly.

Oberyn gestured to her cheek, and Sansa reached up, brushing at it absently, relieved to find that the area was not even swelling. Perhaps it would not even bruise.

"His Grace...does as he sees fit," Sansa answered, which was not entirely an answer at all, but Oberyn seemed to draw his own conclusions from it.

His eyes darkened.

Oberyn swallowed. "The Lannisters are cowards and fiends, and their boy king is worse than all of them, preying on a young girl without ever being told not to."

Sansa laughed falsely. "That is treason, Prince Oberyn. I would never wish harm to come to my beloved. He is still my one true love, despite setting me aside, and rightly so."

"You can lie," Oberyn said, staring at her appreciatively.

Sansa tossed her hair. "What of my Dornish dress? Joffrey will...no doubt wish to see it. I am given to understand that Dornish attire is somewhat more...revealing than what is normally worn in King's Landing."

Oberyn's face fell. "I did not think of that when I suggested it, only-"

"I know," she said, patting his hand. "It was a good lie. For a man who knows nothing of the demands of a woman's mind."

Oberyn stared at her for a full minute, before his lips twitched. "You are teasing me," he said finally, and Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Yes, Prince Oberyn, I am. Now, I must be going, before someone sees us together and my honor is compromised."

Oberyn smiled. "Of course."

She went back to her chambers with rather renewed spirits, relieved to have avoided a full beating on Joffrey's orders, and rather relieved to know that her friendship with Prince Oberyn was indeed that.

She knew that they could not keep meeting as they did, just the two of them, but perhaps he could arrange for Lady Ellaria to meet with her instead, in the future, for surely the woman must be in on this plan, as well?

It was not until she returned to their chambers that she realized that Prince Oberyn had never answered her question.

Chapter Text

The Dornish gown, when it came, delivered in a little box by one of the retinue of the Dornish, made Sansa blush for the thought of wearing it.

It was tan, as were most of the clothes the Dornish wore, she had observed, and had no sleeves, ending scandalously soon after her waistline, and dipping rather far down her chest. It was not transparent, but skin tight in a way that made it appear so.

It was not the sort of thing she would have chosen to wear on her own, though it was beautiful, in its own way. It was the sort of gown that she could imagine Margaery wearing, though, and wearing well.

She tried to imagine herself wearing it, when Prince Oberyn took her to Dorne, and could not quite manage it.

She heard a sharp intake of breath from behind her, and closed her eyes tightly before turning around.

"Lady Sansa," her lord husband said with a slight tremor in his voice, turning away in the next moment.

Sansa was sure that she blushed fiercely as she reached for her nearest shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders before answering her lord husband. "It...it was a gift. I had no intention of wearing it..."

"A...beautiful gift," Tyrion said quietly, not meeting her eyes.

"I will change out of it now, if that is all right with my lord," Sansa said, hurrying from the room to do just that before her husband could respond.

She did not emerge from the little room where she went to change her clothing until she could hear the voice of Tyrion's servant, Pod, setting the table in the outer chamber once more.

When she did, Tyrion took one look at her bloodshot eyes and sent Pod away, after the boy refilled his wine.

"I've heard from my brother Jaime that you spent some time in Prince Oberyn's presence, today," her lord husband said, as she picked at her dinner and he ate rather ravenously at his. "And that it was not the first time."

Sansa did not look at him, forking some meat and staring at it for a moment before letting it fall back down onto her plate.

Her husband liked his meats cooked almost to the point of being burnt, and she wondered if they had burned her brother's body like that, once they were done defiling it. Her goodsister's and mother's as well, perhaps.

"Yes, my lord," she told Tyrion, voice absent and very small. She hoped that he did not notice, but then, what concern was it of his that she spent time with Prince Oberyn, save that she might dishonor her husband by sleeping with the widely known fiend in the bed.

She blushed at the thought.

She may hate Lord Tyrion, but she would not dishonor him in such a way, as her lady mother and her septa had always taught her not to. Surely, he must know that.

"Be careful in whom you place your affections, Lady Sansa," her lord husband told her gently. "Or your trust."

"Is there something about my conduct that you have issue with, my lord?" Sansa asked stiffly, still rather annoyed with him, even now.

Her husband sighed. "The Red Viper did not get that name merely because he loved to play with snakes as a child, Lady Sansa. The Red Viper does not want your friendship, Sansa," Tyrion explained gently. "You are the last heir to Winterfell, to the North. The Lannisters will not be the last to attempt to claim you. You would do well to keep on your guard about him."

Sansa lifted her chin. "I am always on my guard, my lord."

Her husband dipped his head. "I have no doubt of that, my lady."

Sansa's brow furrowed at those words, but she did not have time to respond before the door opened and Shae stepped inside.

"Lady Sansa, Lord Tyrion," she greeted them both, her eyes somewhat softer this time as she looked at Tyrion, and Sansa bit her lip to see it.

"Shae," Tyrion said, his voice oddly soft as he said her name, and Sansa turned away, folding the Dornish gown quickly before Shae saw it.

"Are you ready for bed, Lady Sansa?" Shae asked, seeming to notice the tension in the room for the first time. Sansa doubted that this was the truth.

"Yes, that sounds wonderful," Tyrion murmured, sounding far more relieved than Sansa privately thought the question warranted.

She sighed. "Of course, Shae. I fear my day has been rather long."

Chapter Text

"Those fucking Tullys," Joffrey snapped, and, down the table, Tommen flinched at the harsh words. Sansa was rather surprised that he was not used to such language from Joffrey by now. She had certainly grown immune to hearing it, but perhaps there was something innocent left of Tommen Baratheon, after all.

“They ought to have all been slaughtered with the rest of the Starks. If those Freys had done as they were supposed to..."

Cersei half-turned toward her oldest son, lips drawn down into a disapproving frown. "Joffrey, my dear, don't say such things at the table."

Sansa wondered if she was reprimanding him for the language, or for what he'd said of the Tullys. She had never taken issue with his language before.

Joffrey glared at her. "I'll say whatever in the Seven hells I like, Mother," he snapped at her, and Cersei's spine stiffened.

She reached out and took a long gulp from her wine goblet, expression pinched.

Sansa picked at her food.

Margaery smiled brightly, turning to her husband and laying a hand on his arm. "Perhaps we could go hunting soon, Your Grace? You did promise to take me, after we were wed, and I so would love to go."

Joffrey's eyes widened and all thoughts of the Tullys were seemingly forgotten. "Of course," he told her, sounding very much like a little boy trying to impress a woman he did not quite know how to. "We should go to my shooting range, and I'll teach you better how to use a crossbow."

Margaery smiled as if the idea of doing such a thing was more exciting to her than anything else he might have said. "I would enjoy that very much, Your Grace. And...I suppose...I ought to have some practice first, shouldn't I? Before we go hunting?"

"Joffrey," Cersei said then, with a patient smile, eyes flitting between the King and Queen, and Sansa had no doubt that, if she thought she would get away with it, she would not move to sit directly between them in order to redirect her son's attention. "I am sure that your lady wife does not wish to hunt as though she were a man. Surely you can think of a more...civilized activity, to participate in with her."

Joffrey sneered at his mother, hand reaching out to snake over Margaery's wrist in a grip that almost looked painful, and was certainly possessive. But before he could speak, Margaery did.

"I don't mind at all, Your Grace," she told the Queen Mother, with a dazzling smile that fooled no one at the table, save perhaps Joffrey. Lord Tywin, from where he sat at the head of the table, was squinting at Margaery the day he had when she had intervened for his sake about the Freys, as though she were a particularly interesting puzzle that he was attempting to figure out.

"I have told His Grace before that I would very much love to go hunting with him, and the very idea excites me, so long as I have his blessing to do so." She glanced at her husband. "I wish to offend no one, however."

Cersei's smile was brittle. "I'm afraid that, once you have spent any amount of time in King's Landing, my dear, you will learn that such a thing is impossible. There is always someone who will take offense, from some minor lordling to the common people themselves."

"Enough," Joffrey snapped at his mother. "If I say that my lady wife is going hunting with me, then she is, and that's an end to it, Mother."

"Her Grace is most wise," Margaery deferred then. "She has been most helpful to me, since my wedding day. I do not know how I could have survived in my new station without her. If she thinks that it would be...unwise, in the view of the people-"

Cersei shot Margaery a look, as though she did not at all appreciate the help from the other woman, pursing her lips.

Joffrey waved a hand in dismissal; strange, for Sansa had seen him cave to Margaery's whims for smaller things since their marriage. "My mother is wise in matters that are important to women," he said coolly, "And to Queens. But I am the King, and she knows naught of running a kingdom. You belong to me, not to the people."

Sansa thought of how Cersei was rumored to be running the kingdom on her own before Lord Tyrion and then Lord Tywin took over, of how her lord husband told her Joffrey had very little actual power at all, and privately agreed with him in this one, small thing.

Margaery dipped her head. "Of course, my love. I didn't mean to presume-"

Joffrey took her chin, tilting it upward. "You presumed nothing, my queen," he said, and, though his words were hard and not directed toward her, Sansa could see that his touch was almost gentle.

She could hardly remember a time when Joffrey had been gentle with her, and feared how long it would last for Margaery.

"Joffrey..." Cersei began again, leaning forward as if to lecture her son. Sansa was surprised; she did not think Cersei had ever persisted in something so much as she was tonight, and wondered if it was simply because she was deep in her cups, or could not bear the thought of Margaery winning this round.

She certainly had not fought half so hard for Sansa's father.

"Enough, Cersei," Lord Tywin said then, still staring with his steely gaze lingering on Margaery as she smiled and spoon fed her husband a bit of soup.

Funny, how Joffrey did not seem to mind that treatment in the least, despite that it made him look like a child, to need spoon feeding.

Cersei pouted, like a child told that she could not have what she wanted, or like Joffrey, and took another long gulp of wine.

When the supper was over, Tyrion was one of the first to go, belching loudly until his lord father dismissed him, and thus Sansa, in disgust.

There were times when Sansa did not understand her lord husband at all, for she had seen the way that Joffrey had taken to leering at her not long before his belching had begun.

Ser Jaime was not long after them, and met them in the hall, calling out loudly for Tyrion as he traced his sword with his one remaining hand.

"I suppose we could not have hoped for tonight to have gone much better," Ser Jaime said quietly as he approached, and her husband snorted.

"It was certainly entertaining, watching our two queens quarrel over Joffrey like two bitches with a bone," he said with a smirk, and Ser Jaime's lips seemed to twitch, in spite of himself.

"Jaime!" Cersei called out, emerging from the dining hall then, and the Kingslayer bit his lip.

"I suppose that's my cue to return," Jaime said, with a rather long-suffering sigh, before turning back to Cersei like a dog to his master.

Chapter Text

There were days when Margaery Tyrell was not perfect.

There were days when she went a little too far in her insults to Cersei, and caused the other woman to rise in vengeance and destroy everything Margaery had worked for. There were days when her temper got the better of her, and she made enemies with her servants. There were days when she slipped up in front of her psychopathic husband and aroused his suspicions of her true nature.

Today was not one of those days.

"It's just here," Joffrey was saying, practically bouncing on his feet as he led his wife to the training grounds just before the King's Wood. "The soldiers use them to practice, but they won't be today."

Margaery beamed at him, adjusting the slip of her sleeveless white gown almost unconsciously. Or, at least, she hoped that Joffrey would see it as unconscious.

She was not above using her womanly wiles on her husband, after all.

She was not above anything when it came to Joffrey Baratheon.

"I'm glad, Your Grace. I wouldn't wish anyone to see me if I am too horrible at this," she confessed, and Joffrey stopped, giving her an appraising look.

"You won't be horrible," he said decisively. "And if anyone ever laughs at you," here he sent a disapproving look at their Kingsguard, Ser Meryn and Loras, "I will have their heads immediately."

Margaery smiled, reaching out to take his hand in her own. "That is most kind of you, my love," she said smoothly, ignoring the way that she could see Loras rolling his eyes from the corner of her own. She would have to have a talk with him about that, and soon.

Joffrey pulled away from her. She wondered at that; he was almost as touch shy as Sansa, when she would have thought that the two of them had nothing in common.

Joffrey was the scalding, ever-present sun while Sansa was the cool moon.

"Yes, well..." Joffrey cleared his throat a little, and then he spun away, bouncing with pent up energy as he led her the rest of the way to the training grounds that he had promised her.

Margaery could not quite withhold her intake of breath when she arrived, and she reached out, squeezing her husband's hand in what she hoped would be mistaken as excitement.

The archery grounds were vast, a large field before the Kingswood filled with ringed targets on posts, their red bull's-eyes all staring directly at her.

"Do you come here often, Your Grace?" Margaery asked, sending her husband an inquisitive look.

He puffed out his chest, smirking at her. "As often as a King can be spared for such things, though I like the hunting far more now."

Margaery nodded. "Of course you do. May we..." She had noticed that neither of them had a weapon.

"Oh! I...made you something," Joffrey said, fumbling with his pockets before calling out to Ser Meryn. "My lady's present, Ser Meryn."

Ser Meryn stepped forward, handed him a wooden box which Joffrey than held out to Margaery.

Margaery eyed it as he thrust it out to her, taking the little box gingerly in her hands and opening it.

The box contained a crossbow, similar to the one that Joffrey had once shown her in his chambers, but more improved, she could see, and smaller, almost dainty, adjusted to her own lithe form rather than Joffrey's, with a gold and green rim. Like the other, there was a lever to release the arrows within, and this too was smaller, easier for her to manage.

Margaery stared at it for an appropriate amount of time with an inappropriate amount of awe on her face before looking up.

"It's...It's beautiful," she said, running her fingers slowly along the bow. "Thank you, my love. I shall treasure it every time I use it."

Joffrey waved his hand dismissively. "It will do the job well enough, once you've learned to use it."

Margaery smiled warmly. "I cannot wait to use it, my love. Would you teach me now, Your Grace?"

Joffrey blinked at her, and then grinned. "Yes. Yes. Let's start with that one," he pointed to a target about ten paces from where they stood, before moving to stand behind Margaery.

Margaery relaxed her body as she felt him come up behind her, just barely pressing against her before his hands guided her to the right positions on the crossbow.

"You have to know exactly where you want the arrow to release," Joffrey told her, his breaths catching against her hair as he pressed his cheek to the back of her head. "You have to see the target, think of only the best spots to hit it. The head, the stomach."

Margaery nodded enthusiastically, acutely aware of how far away her brother was from the two of them. "The heart."

Joffrey nodded; she felt it against her hair, pulling at it a little. "Yes," he whispered, and she wondered what he would do if she kissed him, right here, in the middle of the archery grounds.

She wondered if he would enjoy it more than the things they did in the bedchamber.

"And then," he whispered, breathless, "You just release this catch, and it'll hit the target. These crossbows are much more accurate than just a bow and arrow, too, so it should be easier to start with."

Margaery nodded, pulling on her lower lip a little with her teeth before lifting her hand to release the lever.

"Not too fast," Joffrey warned her, "Or you'll catch your fingers."

Margaery nodded, heart pounding a little in her ears as she narrowed her eyes on the target, leaning back against Joffrey as she released the lever of the crossbow her husband had given her.

The arrow sang as it soared through the air and embedded itself in the bull's-eye with a dull thud.

"Like that, Your Grace?" she whispered, glancing back at him innocently.

Joffrey shuddered, looking up to meet her eyes. "We shall go hunting very soon, my lady," he whispered, lips brushing against her ear, and Margaery smiled widely.

"I cannot wait, Your Grace," she confessed. And then, carefully, "Although, I admit, it is not so fascinating as I once thought it would be." She glanced from under her lashes at Joffrey as she said those words, heard his intake of breath.

"It is more fun to kill a living target," Joffrey admitted, "But my lady will have every chance for that, soon enough."

Margaery smiled. "I cannot wait, Your Grace."

Joffrey licked his lips. "N-Neither can I, my lady." His hand ghosted along the underside of her arm, where the bruise lay, and inwardly, Margaery sighed, for she recognized the lust in his eyes well enough, by now.

"Your Grace," a messenger appeared suddenly at the edge of the clearing, and Joffrey's eyes darkened with another emotion altogether as he turned to the man whom Ser Meryn was attempting to force back.

"What is it?" he snapped, Margaery and her shooting forgotten, for now.

The messenger swallowed audibly as he got to his knees. "The Queen sends for you, Your Grace."

Margaery tried not to roll her eyes, and was not entirely sure that she had succeeded. Cersei knew that she and Joffrey were out here on the training yards, after all, and had made clear her view of this; if she did not have her spies watching Margaery at all times, then Margaery had underestimated the woman.

Which was a very difficult thing to do.

If possible, Joffrey's expression darkened even further, and he turned back, grabbing Margaery's arm and pulling her forward.

Loras advanced a step, hand going to the pommel of his sword, but Margaery shook her head at her brother subtly.

"The Queen," Joffrey repeated, saying the words slowly. "The Queen is right here, you fool."

The messenger glanced from Margaery to Joffrey. "The Queen Mother, Your Grace."

Joffrey's lips thinned. "My mother sends for me? Like I'm a servant, at her beck and call?"

The messenger gulped. "Your Grace-"

"I. Am. The. King!" Joffrey screeched, facing turning purple with exertion. "The Queen Mother does not send for me!"

"My love..." Margaery started, but Joffrey ignored her.

"You may go and tell my mother," Joffrey sneered, "That she may request an audience with me, like any other of my subjects. She knows where I am, obviously."

The messenger wavered even as he stood. "Your Grace-"

"Or I can cut out your tongue, and send it to her," Joffrey snapped. "I'm sure she'll understand the message the same."

The messenger had likely never moved so fast in his life.

"I am sure that she meant no harm, my love," Margaery placated the moment he was gone, effecting a soothing expression as she reached out to touch him once more. He shook her hand off, glaring after the messenger. "She is your mother. It has likely not occurred to her-"

"If the fact that I am King has not occurred to her yet, then I've nothing more to say to her at all!" Joffrey snapped, and then, seeing the shocked look on Margaery's face at his harsh words to her, his expression softened. "I am sorry, my lady. I merely wish that she hadn't ruined our day."

Margaery smiled gently. "Not ruined yet, my love. We've still some time before you must be called away to the important matters of the State, yes?"

Joffrey grinned. "Yes, we do, don't we?"

Margaery smiled. "Could we try a further target this time, my love?" she asked, pulling him back toward the training fields.

And, when he did finally have to return to matters of state, which, as far as she understood it, involved approving all of Lord Tywin's plans without paying much attention to their content, her lord husband was in a far better mood. She could almost have been persuaded that he had forgotten about his mother's summons, if she did not know him so well.

No doubt he was thinking of ways to enact revenge, after watching Margaery hit all but one of the targets he had Ser Meryn and Loras set for her for the better part of the morning.

Margaery allowed Ser Meryn to escort her back inside, and found Lady Reanna waiting on the dais before the Keep, smiling widely at her. Joffrey was long gone, having dragged Loras into some discussion of weapons that had superseded even Margaery's influence.

"That was well done, my lady," Lady Reanna told her. And, at her look, elaborated, "I was watching from here for some time. You seem to have a talent for the sport, and so quickly you took to it. His Grace seemed impressed."

Ahead of them, Ser Meryn turned to one of his fellow Kingsguard and began speaking to him in low tones. Margaery eyed him as she answered her lady.

Margaery sniffed derisively. "My brother Willas ensured that I was taught the art of the bow from the moment I became a woman, Lady Reanna. That," she nodded behind her, to where she had been with Joffrey moments earlier, "was sporting of another kind. But I will accept the compliment, all the same, for one is not more difficult than the other."

Chapter Text

"Sewing, again," Sansa said, dubiously.

Margaery grinned at her. "I promise that this time, it will not be in the Queen Mother's chambers, nor will she be in attendance. She has urgent business with the Small Council, and anyway, she's been rather...distant, lately."

Sansa blinked, at that. "What sort of business?" she asked, and wondered if Stannis Baratheon was setting up for another siege of King's Landing. Wondered secondly what Cersei was planning, if she was no longer attempting to befriend Margaery. She was not a most patient woman, and Sansa doubted that she would remain with a plan she thought was failing so spectacularly, especially after the way that Joffrey had humiliated her at the dinner table.

Margaery gave her a considering look, and then shrugged. "Something to do with the finances of the Crown, I suspect. No doubt the Tyrells will be asked for more...assistance. So. Sewing?"

Sansa sighed. "I do not think that my stitches can do any better with practice, Lady Margaery, if you are trying to tell me something."

Margaery's eyes twinkled with mirth. "Then perhaps you will agree to another activity with me. I have been meaning to do it for some time, but have not found the right...partner, for such an activity."

Sansa raised a brow. "What is it?"

Margaery smiled. "I have always enjoyed swimming. There were these pools, in Highgarden, and I...Anyway, I would like to go swimming here, in King's Landing. The water in the harbor always looks so calm, and I think it would be a wonderful activity. Perhaps a picnic, as well. I will invite some of my other ladies to come along, if they so wish it, and of course we will be escorted by the Kingsuard."

Sansa chewed on her lower lip. "I don't...I don't really know how to swim."

Margaery shook her head dismissively. "That doesn't matter. Most of my ladies cannot swim, either. I thought that we could merely wade, and pick up seashells, if we can find them. Only, how I would love to be in the water again." She batted her eyes at Sansa, who laughed a little to see it.

"That sounds lovely," Sansa admitted, and it did, but... "The Queen Mother would never let me go with you."

Margaery shook her head. "Let me deal with Cersei, if you would really like to go, Sansa. I don't want her inhibiting you in even this small thing."

Sansa hesitated. "But the Queen-"

"Sansa," she said gently, taking both of Sansa's hands in her own and squeezing them. "I am the Queen now."

Sansa swallowed. "Then...I would like that, very much."

Margaery grinned, pulling back and clapping her hands together. "Wonderful. I shall tell Elinor and Megga."

Sansa wrinkled her nose at the mention of Elinor, despite that she knew she had no real reason to dislike the girl, not like she did the Lady Reanna.

"We'll meet in my chambers in one hour?" Margaery asked with a smile, and Sansa nodded.

"I'll be ready," she said, and it was only after she had uttered the words that she realized she had absolutely no idea what one wore to swim.

There hadn't been much opportunity for swimming in Winterfell, after all, despite her Tully heritage. Her lady mother had always bemoaned that fact, had always said that the thing she missed the most about her home was swimming in the river, and that it was such a shame that her sons would not have the opportunity.

It was not difficult to elicit the assistance of Shae for this, though. The other woman was more than pleased, Sansa knew, with her renewed friendship with Margaery, even if she had left off saying anything about it since the incident with Tyrion.

Shae managed to find her a gown that was simple and would not be destroyed with the water, and helped Sansa into it.

"Perhaps I should go with you," she suggested, as she tied Sansa's hair back into an elaborate braid. "So that the King does not think that you are attempting an escape."

Sansa swallowed. "I don't think that's necessary," she said kindly, laying a hand on Shae's arm. Shae stared down at it for a moment, and then back up at Sansa, her eyes narrowing. "Margaery's ladies will be there, and members of the Kingsguard. The King will be able to see that I am not going anywhere."

Shae hesitated, and then nodded. "The Queen will keep you safe."

"Yes," Sansa told her, with a smile. "She is my friend."

Shae sighed. "You have more friends in King's Landing than you think, Lady Sansa." And then, before Sansa could make sense of those words, "Go. Have fun."

Margaery and her two ladies and several Kingsguard, Ser Loras among them, were waiting for Sansa in the Maidenvault when she arrived, and she blushed and apologized and ignored the look in Margaery's eyes when she told her that everything was fine.

Margaery led the way out of the Red Keep, and Sansa found herself wishing that the stronger, self-assured woman would lead Sansa farther than that, even as she sighed to breathe the fresh air outside of the Keep.

They took litters to the beach, took the short way so that they did encounter many of the smallfolk, though those they did shouted love to their beautiful and kind queen. Margaery and Sansa shared one, and spent their time giggling behind the screen, and Elinor and Megga shared the other. The Kingsguard marched alongside them to the beach and then Ser Loras was there to help his sister out of the litter first, and then Sansa. He did not meet her eyes as he did so.

The beach that the Kingsguard had brought them to was just outside the city walls, and Sansa wondered for a moment how Margaery had managed to convince her husband to allow her outside of the city walls, before she remembered that this was Margaery, capable of all manner of miracles.

Sansa had smiled more in her presence than she could remember doing so since arriving in King's Landing.

The water was lovely today, glassy and perfect and a little warm, and the girls spent the remainder of the afternoon wading and gossiping and attempting to skip smooth stones and making sandcastles, and it reminded Sansa of the times that she had gone out into the godswood with Jeyne, to get away from everyone for a little, and how lovely and peaceful she had always found it.

It was beautiful here. The open skies, not hidden, if she stared only to the East and pretended that the Keep did not loom behind her, seemed bluer here than they had in the royal gardens, though she knew that was likely only her imagination. The air was pleasantly warm, and she found herself glad that she had not worn other clothes and had allowed Shae to help her choose them, or she might have been stuck on the beach in such weather.

The Kingsguard took up their position at the edge of the beach, close enough to defend while still allowing the girls their privacy.

None of them ever actually did any swimming, though Margaery lamented that Megga could not actually do more than tread water, which Megga seemed rather surprised to hear.

Little fish, freer than Sansa, swam around her legs, and she dug her toes into the sand with a little sound that she was relieved she did not comment on, and pretended to be listening to the other girls' words.

She wondered if this was what it was like in Dorne, all the time.

And then Sansa saw the little row boat, tethered to a dock not far from where they were swimming.

She froze, stared at it, saw the little oars tied to the sides of it.

She knew that it was foolish. That Prince Oberyn had promised to take her from this place, regardless that the leaving itself was taking far too long for her, and that she would be visible to the entire harbor, rowing away. That she barely even knew how to row on her own.

But still, the temptation was there, and she couldn't help but walk toward the little boat.

"Sansa," Margaery said quietly, laying a soothing hand on her clothed arm. She had not even noticed the other girl walking up behind her. "Don't."

Sansa sucked in a breath, flitting her eyes away from the boat and giving Margaery a tremulous smile. "I don't know what you're-"

"I know you want to leave this place," Margaery interrupted her gently. "Believe me, I know. But there are half a dozen Kingsguard here, and both of my ladies are witnesses. Even if I ordered them to lie on your behalf, do you think anyone would believe that you managed to slip away?"

Sansa gulped. "I...I shouldn't have come here," she gasped out, attempting to pull her sleeve free of Margaery, but the other girl wasn't letting her go. "It's different, with the ships. I could escape, here. I could take that little boat and you'd never see me again."

"You wouldn't make it into the sea before Joffrey ordered your ship destroyed, regardless of whether or not you were in it," Margaery told her. "Sansa, come and sit with us on the beach."

Sansa took a deep breath, and then nodded. "Yes. All right."

She allowed Margaery to lead her back to the beach, where Elinor and Megga were already waiting, allowed Margaery to pull her down into a sitting position in the white sand beside her, allowed Margaery to lull her into conversation.

She did not know when she forgot about the little boat, instead talking animatedly about the gowns of King's Landing and how she used to enjoy sewing, once, how, if she must sew in King's Landing, she would rather it be with gowns that she might wear, than pillow cases.

Margaery had leaned forward, Sansa noticed the next moment that she focused on the young queen, resting her chin on her hand as her lips parted a little.

Sansa paused in her speaking, blinking self-consciously at Margaery. "What is it?" she asked, running a hand through her hair.

Margaery shook herself, as if she was coming out of a dream. "Nothing," she said finally, smiling faintly. Then, "You just...looked so happy."

Sansa flushed. "I..."

"You needn't apologize for it, Sansa," Margaery said quietly, her gaze suddenly far more intense than it had been a moment before.

"I wasn't...apologizing, I just..."

Margaery reached out, taking Sansa's hands in her own. "You deserve to be happy, Sansa," she said fiercely. "And you needn't apologize to yourself, every time that you are."

Sansa pulled away from her, swallowing hard. "I think perhaps I should return to the Keep now. My husband will be looking for me."

Margaery sighed, but then nodded. "I will escort you, of course. You shouldn't go back into that city alone."

"Oh no, you needn't-"

"It is no imposition," Margaery promised her. "Elinor! Megga! Back to the castle with us."

Chapter Text

She was due to meet Sansa in some time for another stroll around the gardens, despite her grandmother’s comment that if she saw another Lannister garden she would throw herself from a cliff to avoid sitting in it again.

She had been doing that often lately, and Margaery had a terrible feeling that it was a not so subtle warning; that soon enough, Olenna Tyrell would not be around to help her here, in King’s Landing.

What she had not worked out was whether this meant what she feared it meant, or that Olenna would be returning to Highgarden soon.

In retrospect, she was not sure which was worse.

There came a knock on the door just as Alla was helping her into a crimson gown with little golden lions stitched into it, and Margaery smiled, thinking that perhaps it was Sansa come early, or Loras come to complain about something or other.

It had been some time since Loras had opened up enough to do that, however.

"Just a moment, Sansa!" Margaery called, and then smiled warmly at Alla. "That will be all, dear. Thank you."

Alla smiled back at her. "Do you think that I could come with you to the royal gardens? Elinor'll have me doing chores all day, otherwise."

Margaery chuckled. "I suppose it could be arranged, but you mustn't tell anyone I let you," she whispered conspiratorially.

Alla grinned. "I'll just go and get my shawl."

Margaery nodded. "I'll wait for you in here."

She had noticed that Sansa was far more willing to be open around her when they were alone, or in Margaery's chambers, and she rather liked Sansa better that way.

Uninhibited.

She swallowed, and ushered Alla through the side door that would lead to the chambers she shared with Megga, before going to her own door and opening it with a bright smile.

Sansa was not on the other side of the door.

"Ser Osmund," Margaery said, smiling prettily at him to hide her surprise. "I did not expect you today."

Ser Osmund gave her a per functionary bow from the doorway of her bedchambers. "His Grace required your brother Ser Loras for a sparring session. I hope that I am not too disappointing?"

Margaery blinked at him. "Of course not, good Ser. Only a surprise, that is all."

"A good one, I hope?"

Margaery cocked her head. "I hardly know you, Ser. 'Tis not a bad one. Only...there was something that I wished to speak with him about, is all."

Ser Osmund was stepping through the door already as she spoke, his great shoulders barely fitting through the entrance, and at her words he bit back a smile. "I do not think that our king will occupy much of your brother's time, my lady. He has not done so in past spars."

Margaery's eyes narrowed. "That was hardly appropriate for you to say, Ser Osmund." She brushed past him, into the hall, rather regretting now that she had sent Alla away. "I will hear no insults against my husband, His Grace. Do you understand me?"

Ser Osmund ducked his head, shamefaced, but followed her nonetheless. "Of course, Your Grace. I meant no offense, only harmless japes."

She hesitated. "Then all is forgiven. My ladies and I wish to play come-into-my-castle again today, Ser Osmund, in another of the covered gardens. I hope that you will be the gallant knight you were when we played the other day."

Ser Osmund reached out, hand snaking around her wrist, and Margaery stiffened, instinctively attempting to pull away.

"Unhand me at once, Ser Osmund," she ground out, when his gloved hand did not retreat as she had no doubt been expecting it to.

"Do you and your ladies really find such enjoyment out of children's games still?" he asked her, eyes roving her form in a way that might have made a lesser woman shudder. Margaery did not flinch. "You are a woman grown now. Surely you have interest in...more grown games."

Margaery pursed her lips. "Many of my ladies are not women grown, Ser Osmund," she told him, voice cold. "And I myself have always found enjoyment in this very game. Are you coming, then?"

Ser Osmund sighed. "If my queen insists."

She lifted her chin. "Do not touch me again, Ser Osmund."

He nodded, though she could detect amusement in the quirk of his brow. "As my queen demands."

When Margaery knocked on the door to her ladies' shared chambers moments later, and asked how many of them would wish to accompany her in a game of come-into-my-castle in the courtyard, Alla groaned.

Margaery did her best to conceal her shaking as she led her ladies to the courtyard, Ser Osmund following behind, a silent specter.

Chapter Text

"Ellaria Sand wishes to speak with me?" Sansa repeated, rather dreading the thought as she remembered their last meeting. While she had found the woman kind and friendly, the meeting dredged up rather unpleasant memories still.

Shae nodded. "I can tell her that you are busy, if you like," she said, folding her hands in front of herself.

Sansa shook her head. "Queen Margaery sent a servant to inform me that she and her ladies were playing come-into-my-castle again, instead of walking in the gardens. I've no wish for more games today, I'm afraid."

Shae gave her a long look. "Are you certain? They might do you good."

Sansa sighed. "At any rate, I shouldn't keep Lady Ellaria waiting."

Shae ground her teeth a little, but then smiled. "I'll walk you there, then."

Sansa lifted a brow, suspicious. "Why?"

Her servant, Tyrion's lady, whatever she was now, was unimpressed as she ushered Sansa out into the hall. "I want to make sure you get there safely, and send a servant to come and find me to walk you back?"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "I don't think that would be necessary. I know the way."

"Please."

It was the please that got to her, and Sansa glanced at her as they walked. "What has you so bothered? I thought you told me that I ought to recognize my friends, in King's Landing."

"I am not convinced that Prince Oberyn Martell and his lady are your friends," Shae said, through clenched teeth as they passed several nobles. "Nor am I convinced that you have entirely thought this through."

Sansa blinked at her. "How do you mean? One innocent meeting with Ellaria Sand will not harm me," she said, and tried to sound more sure than she felt about it.

Shae sighed. "I am your maidservant, Sansa. Do you think I haven't noticed the bundle of clothing and the hairbrush and the extra boots that you keep hidden in the back of your wardrobe?"

Sansa froze. "Shae..."

"I haven't told anyone," Shae said, her voice shaking, and Sansa did not think it was from fear. "Not even Tyrion. But Sansa...What do you think the Martells will do with you, if you go to Dorne with them? Do you even know?"

Sansa bit her lip. "It must be better than what the Lannisters have planned for me."

"Tyrion cares about you," Shae said quietly. "I know you don't like to think so, but it is the truth. He cares about you, and he will do his best to shield you from the rest of his horrid family that he can. Do you think the Martells really care about you, or your Stark name and what stealing you away from the Crown will do to the Lannisters? What do you think will happen to you once they've gotten their vengeance? You'll be married off to someone, to secure their claim to your home."

"I don't want to talk about this," Sansa snapped at her, as they came to the corridor where she knew the Martell host to be staying.

Shae nodded. "I know, because you don't want to think about it. But you should. Or, at the very least, you should ask."

Sansa spun on her. "Do you think I haven't? I'm scared about what might happen to me once I leave King's Landing, Shae, but I'm terrified of what will happen to me if I stay here. Don't you understand?"

"Yes," Shae said, without a moment's hesitation. "Yes, I do, Sansa. I just...Just remember that you have friends here, and the Martells may be offering you something good, but they may not be your friends, either. Prince Oberyn's anger over his sister's death is legendary, and that will always come first for him."

Sansa lifted her chin as they came to a stop outside Ellaria's door. "I'll keep it in mind," she said, in a rather harsh voice.

Shae smiled sadly. "You won't. Send for me if you need me, Lady Sansa."

And then she turned on her heel, and was gone.

Sansa stared after her for a moment, filled with an irritation she knew to be irrational; even if Shae had confessed herself jealous of Sansa, she did have Sansa's best interests in mind with her words, she knew.

She knocked on the door as Shae's figure retreated into the shadows of the hall, and told the answering servant that she was there to see Lady Ellaria. The serving girl laughed, but let her in anyway.

Despite all of her protestations that she was not a lady, Ellaria looked like a queen, where she was draped across the divan in her elaborate outer chamber, far nicer than the rooms Sansa and Tyrion occupied, sucking on a grape and flipping through a golden rimmed tome that Sansa thought looked somewhat familiar.

The room had a very Dornish look to it, despite the fact that they were in King's Landing, tan and gold with the Martell flags on the walls and what she assumed to be Dornish paintings beside them, with a lovely view of the ocean beyond where Ellaria sat, and it was beautiful, Sansa couldn't help but think, taking in the general splendor as she took a step forward.

"Lady Sansa," she greeted, but did not stand up, and Sansa smiled in turn.

"What did you think of the dress I had sent to you? I hope it fit well?" Ellaria asked as Sansa stepped into her chambers, and the other girl blushed.

"I...It was very lovely, and a good fit," Sansa said, pretending that she had done more than looked at it and tried it on once before shoving it to the back of her wardrobe guiltily.

Ellaria smiled. "I am relieved. Come, sit with me, child. I suppose my Oberyn told you I'd like to speak with you?"

Sansa swallowed, moving to the divan and sitting beside the Prince's paramour. "Yes."

Ellaria nodded. "I thought that it would likely be better this way, for seeing you in the company of an unmarried Prince known for his...indiscretions might make some suspicious of our intentions toward you, and we needn't have that."

Sansa came forward, sitting down on one of the cushions beside Ellaria. "My lord husband did...express some discontent," she admitted, and Ellaria nodded.

"Just as I thought. I will ensure that Oberyn understands the stakes, then, Lady Sansa." She reached out, brushing a bit of hair behind Sansa's ear. "Now, what has my Oberyn told you of his plans?" Ellaria asked, and Sansa blinked.

"Close to nothing," she admitted, for it was true, and she could not stand this not knowing. She never knew, and, in the end, it always harmed, rather than helped her.

Ellaria frowned, glancing at the door out of which her lover had just gone. "Well," she said finally, taking Sansa's hands in hers, "We must remedy that."

Sansa felt a wave of relief wash through her. "What will happen to me, once we are in Dorne? And when are we leaving? What of Myrcella Baratheon, and how will you sneak me past the Lannisters?"

Ellaria raised a hand, laughing. "One at time, my dear." She hesitated, looking Sansa over. "Oberyn and I have been making plans since the moment he first laid eyes on you, you know. You remind him ever so much of his sister, Elia, stuck here as a prisoner amongst the Lions."

Sansa flushed. "I did not mean to dredge up painful memories..."

"Oh no," Ellaria assured her. "You are not to blame, little wolf. My lover has had such painful memories dredged up since the moment he arrived in King's Landing. He would not have thought it so of you were he not already thinking of her near constantly." She gave Sansa a long look. "You do not look over much like her, after all."

Sansa did not truly know how to respond to that. "Ellaria..."

Ellaria pulled her close, into a warm embrace that Sansa wanted both to pull away from and press into. She did not remember the last time anyone had hugged her.

And then, in her ear, Ellaria whispered, "My husband has still some business in King's Landing to take care of, before he can take us back to Dorne, but worry not, for he hates it here as much as you. You must be absolutely ready at any time to leave however, little wolf. Can you do that for us?"

Sansa thought of her friendship with Margaery, but then, if it came down to a choice of staying in King's Landing where Margaery could barely shield her from Joffrey and Cersei and leaving this horrible place forever, she knew what she would always choose.

And there was little that she would wish to take from this place, anyway.

"Yes," she whispered, and Ellaria pulled back, smiling at her.

"Good," she told the other girl. "I think you will like it very much in Dorne, Lady Sansa."

Sansa smiled. "I hope so. I cannot wait to see it."

"Nor can I, my dear," Ellaria told her, with a distant look in her eyes. "Nor can I."

Chapter Text

Margaery had been looking forward to a calm, quiet supper with her husband before they both retired to their separate chambers for the night. To that end, she'd had her servants prepare a nice roast and stew, and gotten out the finest of wines from the royal cellar, and waited for her husband to leave his meeting with the Small Council.

She had even been planning to bring up the subject of Ser Osmund, in only the vaguest of terms, of course; she knew how jealous her husband could become. Perhaps ask if he might not be assigned to her alone again, not when her brother or any of the other Kingsguard was available.

He had been assigned to her only once since the day she had spurned him, and had made no overtures toward her, but she had been distinctly uncomfortable in his presence nonetheless, and made a point of remaining out in public in front of as many people as she could throughout his duty.

She would come up with some excuse about his interest in Lady Reanna as a reason for this, and her husband would easily be swayed to agree to her demands without her alerting his suspicions of anything truly wrong.

Joffrey had gone to the Small Council maybe a handful of times since Margaery had arrived in King's Landing, she knew, content to make decisions without any information on them and torture those still in his court.

Margaery had been encouraging him to attend more meetings since their marriage, for, while she understood the advantage the realm had when Joffrey was distracted enough with her not to deal with any matters of state, she knew that it would be better for both of them if she knew what was going on in the Small Council, if Joffrey could keep a curb on Cersei and the rest of the Lannisters.

She should have known better than to think the words 'calm' and 'quiet' in conjunction with Joffrey Baratheon.

He swept into their chambers, his face a storm cloud, about half an hour later than they had agreed upon, and she almost saw the tears filling his eyes before he turned away and plopped himself down into the seat at the table across from her own, glaring down at his roast as though it had personally offended him.

Two high red spots had appeared on his cheeks, and a vein had popped out on his neck.

Margaery grimaced and pretended it was a smile. "Is something wrong, my love?"

Joffrey glanced up at her, his expression softening only minutely. "My fucking grandfather, that's what's wrong. He thinks he's King now that I've made him the Hand."

Margaery arranged her face into a mask of sympathy. "Surely he doesn't contradict the King's wishes?"

Joffrey grabbed at his knife and fork, ripping apart his roast. Margaery winced as he shoved a large piece into his mouth and chewed on it violently. "He undermines me every chance he gets. Makes me feel like a child even when he knows I am the king."

Margaery's lips pursed in disapproval. "Then he ought to be taught a lesson, Your Grace. You cannot allow him to treat you in such a fashion just because he is your grandfather."

Joffrey pointed his fork at her, and Margaery forced herself to retain her sympathetic smile. "Exactly. You understand. I ought to do away with the whole Small Council altogether and rely only on your own council. Or, better, name your father Hand of the King. He knows his place."

Margaery dipped her head. "If that is what you wish, I am sure that my father would be honored, Your Grace, but Lord Tywin-"

"I. Am. The. King!" Joffrey shrieked, standing to his feet so suddenly he nearly knocked over the table. "I don't have to answer to Tywin Lannister, or any of the rest of them!"

Margaery nodded, opened her mouth to cool the storm, but Joffrey spoke before she could, voice raising with his anger.

"All these...people...judging me, I can see them, every one of the fucking courtiers, even my own mother, now!" Joffrey snapped, and with a sweep of his hand the contents of their supper fell to the ground.

Margaery bit back a sigh. "I'm sure that they don't mean to, my love-"

"Oh, they do!" Joffrey shouted, his face turning a hideous shade of purple. "Thinking they know better than me, not liking it when I make my own decisions. Yesterday, Grandfather told me to sit down, in my own Small Council meeting. I've been going, since you urged me to, but apparently my being there doesn't even matter!"

He kicked his chair and it went flying across the room. Margaery barely managed not to jump in surprise.

Instead, she stood to her feet, coming to stand behind her husband and hesitantly placing her hands on his shoulders. When he didn't shrug her off, she leaned forward, pressing her nose into the soft part of his neck.

"They don't understand the burdens that a king lives under, my love," she murmured, and Joffrey nodded. "How could they? They play at the game of thrones, but you are the king. They all think that, were they king, they would do things their own way, but you must persevere. You must show them how wrong they are."

Joffrey nodded. "I am the King. Not them."

Margaery ducked her head a little, turning to smile up at him. "Yes, you are, my love. And everyone of them knows it. It's why they judge you, why they crave the power you have." She leaned forward, pressing their noses together. "Don't let them take it from you."

"I won't," Joffrey vowed, and then his hands were moving down her body, pulling her in front of him and cupping at her breasts. Margaery leaned into the touch, looking over his shoulder at the picture mounted on the wall behind him and moaning when she felt it appropriate.

After what the smallfolk were beginning to call the Red Wedding, Joffrey had commissioned an oil painting of the Stark downfall, and it hung in their chambers everyday; Robb Stark, with the head of a wolf and the body of a dead man, his wife, with her child still inside her bloated belly, Catelyn Stark, a red streak across her throat, and a dozen dead Stark soldiers about them.

Joffrey stood triumphant in the middle of the painting, holding a bloodied Widow's Wail and grinning like a madman.

Margaery found her eyes often drawn to that painting when they made love. She knew that Joffrey noticed sometimes, and made sure, when he did, to act appropriately aroused by it, when inside she felt nothing but disgust.

"Perhaps we could go to the archery range again soon, my love," Margaery offered, and Joffrey smirked at her, glancing up from his attentions to her breasts, where he had removed the top half of her gown, which conveniently opened on its own.

"Would you like that?" he asked, kneading her left breast with both hands, and Margaery moaned again.

"Oh, I would, my love. But only if you think I am not wasted on the sport. I am sure that I am not very good."

His eyes grew dark then, and he forced her chin up, studying her with an adoring expression that she always found disturbing, even if she knew how hard she had worked to receive it from her husband.

"You're wonderful," he told her, "Better than any of my foolish excuses for guards."

"Really?" she asked, breathily, and Joffrey blinked at her, lust in his eyes now, as one hand trailed down the front of her gown.

"I expect we'll have you hunting the living soon enough," he continued, and Margaery beamed at him.

"I cannot wait for that, my love. Do you have a Small Council meeting tomorrow, by any chance?"

He waved a hand dismissively, and she let out a small whimper at the removal of his hand from her person, noticed how he seemed to stand a little taller for it. "Nothing I can't miss."

She grinned, suppressing a sigh, leaning forward and taking his index finger into her mouth, giving it a little suck that had Joffrey gasping.

"I'm so glad."

And then he reached down and started undoing the ties of his trousers, and Margaery took him by the shoulders, leading him back to their bed in the other room of his ornate chambers, her plans for a quiet night in her own room long gone from her mind.

Chapter Text

"My father is unsure what he should do," Margaery confessed. "Alla and Elinor are both promised to a suitor, once their service to me is rendered complete, but the man fought valiantly during the Battle of Blackwater, and his family, despite not being noble, is wealthy enough that securing their loyalty could certainly help our cause, and at the very least not hurt."

"It doesn't sound as if your father is unsure what to do," Sansa pointed out timidly, but Margaery only smiled at her.

"You are right; my father prefers to spend his time planning more important battles or at the dining table," she said with a shrug. "I suppose then, that I am unsure what to do."

"What about Lady Megga?" Sansa asked curiously, attempting to think of any other of Margaery's ladies whom she could name.

Still, it made her uncomfortable even to speak of planning another woman's betrothal, after hers with Joffrey had ended so badly.

"I'm sure that Megga's betrothed would have something to say about that," Margaery said with a little chuckle.

"Megga has been betrothed? But then...why is she still your lady?" Sansa asked incredulously, for it was not the custom for married women to remain on as ladies, even to their queens. While Elinor and Alla were too young to be forced off into marriage and away from their liege lady, Megga was older even then Margaery.

Margaery laughed. "Her betrothed has sailed off to Pentos, or Lorath, or one of those Free Cities," she informed Sansa. "I expect he won't be back for some years, if at all. He promised Megga an unknown gift of great beauty for their wedding, and said he would not return without it. I personally think that he will get her a Valyrian jewel, if he can find it."

Sansa blinked at her. "But...Megga is just a lowly member of your House," she said incredulously. "Why would he agree to such a thing for her?"

"Megga told him that she would give him virginity if he could promise her something better than a knighted husband and a gaggle of little Tyrells," Margaery said with a half-smirk, "And then she danced with Tommen on my wedding night. I suppose he rather took the hint."

Sansa flushed at Margaery's words. "Did she really..."

"Oh, of course she didn't mean it," Margaery said, grinning now. "She gave up her womanhood long ago, to some backwoods laborer in the stables, the little liar." She glanced down at Sansa, and smirked again. "You blush so prettily, like a maiden," Margaery said, giggling at the blush of crimson running over Sansa's face at her words.

"I...I...is it so obvious?" Sansa finally burst out, and Margaery blinked at her in surprise.

"Truly?" Margaery asked, lifting her brows in surprise.

Sansa blushed. "Is it really so strange? I am a maiden, and my maidenhood belongs to my husband, should he wish to take it." She shifted uncomfortably. "That is how it works."

Margaery laughed. "Well, of course it is, but you are perhaps the first maiden I have met wholly unspoiled. Most ladies find a way to circumvent such traditions. And why should we not be? It is not for men to have all of the fun before their wedding night. Women ought to have the opportunity to practice, as well."

Sansa was left reeling, at the revelation that the Queen had not been a virgin on the night of her wedding to Joffrey, though a part of her was rather relieved by that news, for Margaery's sake.

"Cersei once told me that a woman's most powerful weapon is between her legs," Sansa said shyly.

Margaery laughed. "That sounds like her."

Sansa tilted her head. "You don't agree."

Margaery smiled. "Little bird, a woman's most powerful weapon is her mouth. Once a man's had a taste of one cunt, he's tasted them all. It's the teasing that he loves."

Sansa blushed scarlet. "Does...does Joffrey..."

Margaery smiled again, but this time, her eyes were not dancing with the amusement they'd had before. This time, the smile was fake. "Joffrey is just like any other man, but the teasing is different, with him."

"Because he's insane," Sansa said, and it felt liberating to say so, even if it was only between the two of them. Even still, her eyes widened and she glanced around, in the old fear that someone was watching them from the shadows of Margaery's bedchambers.

Margaery's lips twitched, as if she was having trouble holding back a smile. "Yes, that does seem to have an effect."

Sansa's head whipped around. "He is your husband," she stammered out.

Margaery shrugged. "I told you, Sansa, that I wanted you to feel safe to confide in me anything you like, here. No one will overhear us; the walls of my bedchamber are the thickest in the castle. If I could not say and do as I pleased here, I would not have given you that false hope."

"You said that you were a maiden when you and Lord Tyrion were wed," Margaery said quietly, taking a sip of her wine. "And now...Do you mean that Lord Tyrion has never..."

Sansa blushed. "No, not once."

Margaery sat up then. "Sansa, if he never consummated the marriage, then you could have it annulled by the High Septon," she told her seriously. "You wouldn't have to be married to him. I...I see the way you look at him, sometimes, and I do know what you confided in me, that you don't care for your husband at all."

Sansa laughed hollowly. "The Lannisters will never allow that. They want me married off to a Lannister, so that no one else can claim Winterfell. If I make any sort of claim, Joffrey will force Lord Tyrion to fuck me in front of witnesses, if necessary, to get the job done."

Margaery's lips twisted. "But-"

"You know that; it's why your family wanted me to marry Willas, so badly," Sansa said, with just a touch of bitterness in her voice.

Margaery threaded her fingers through Sansa's hair. "It may have been my family's wish, but Sansa, I thought that we had agreed not to speak of that...unpleasantness, again."

Sansa eyed her for a moment, and then reached for another piece of cheese. "Of course. I...Why would you want me to get an annulment, anyway?"

The other girl was silent for a long moment, and then said brightly, "You still could be. Safe, in Highgarden. You would just have to make sure the Lannisters don't know what you're planning, go to the High Septon first thing in the morning."

"Margaery."

She glanced at her. "Must you see a plot in everything, Sansa? I would like to see you smile again. There, now you know." She shrugged. "And, I know how the prospect of having the Imp's child frightens you. I find it distasteful, myself. But I suppose it doesn't matter, if seeking an annulment on the grounds of no consummation would only endanger you." She shook her head.

Sansa nodded. "I would like that, more than anything, but it is impossible," she told Margaery. "They'd never allow it."

"Then I am sorry for bringing it up," Margaery apologized sweetly. Sansa nodded, and they spoke no more of it.

She felt almost guilty, for not telling Margaery that there was no reason to attempt such comforting words, for she would not be long for King's Landing, but she knew that such was a secret between herself and the Martells, and to speak of it, even here, where she trusted Margaery not to tell a soul, would be betraying her confidence to them.

Margaery must never know, even if it pained Sansa to lie by omission to her friend. It would be easier, this way.

Sansa was no fool. She suspected that, whatever business Prince Oberyn still had here, it must be ominous, for Ellaria to instruct her to be ready to leave at any moment, and it was best not to get Margaery involved in such a thing, for her own sake.

Chapter Text

"Your Grace," Margaery said, blinking in surprise when she found Cersei standing on the other side of her door, wearing a pinched expression that was more reminiscent of a grimace than a smile. "I did not expect you. Do come in, I was just changing my gown."

Cersei dipped her head, leaving Jaime Lannister outside to step into Margaery's chambers primly, the door swinging shut behind her.

For a moment, though she knew it would certainly be foolish of the other woman, Margaery feared that Cersei would attempt to kill her, now that they were alone.

She almost wished that Jaime Lannister had come into the room with them, though it would hardly be appropriate and she doubted he was any more trustworthy.

Cersei half-turned away to give Margaery some privacy as she stripped off her gown, letting it fall to the floor where she knew her ladies would pick it up, later.

"I would like to apologize for the words I said at the dining table," Margaery said, effecting her sweetest tones. "I did not think that His Grace-"

Cersei cleared her throat. "You need not apologize, my dear gooddaughter. His Grace and I have been...growing distant, since the marriage, and I have been struggling to connect with him. Through no fault of your own." Her words softened to almost a whisper, so that Margaery had to strain to hear her. "I suppose everyone will be noticing it now, however."

As she slipped into a golden dress that had been a gift on her wedding day from her grandmother, she cleared her throat to let Cersei know that it was all right to look again, pulling her hair out of the collar and letting it fall loosely around her shoulders.

Cersei was staring at her discarded gown when Margaery looked up. Margaery followed the other woman's gaze, paling when she saw the spots of blood clearly visible on it.

Her ladies could like be rid of the stain, but, seeing the almost gleeful expression on Cersei's face, she found herself rather wishing they would burn it for her, instead.

Cersei examined the cup, she knew, in lieu of Margaery herself. "Do you have your moon's blood, this month?"

Margaery swallowed, feeling oddly uncomfortable in front of her goodmother, as though she were naked. Not that she had ever been uncomfortable in only her skin before. "Yes, Mother," she said, merely because she knew it would annoy the other woman.

Cersei's lips twitched in obvious irritation at the title, but she didn't protest it. Margaery did not believe it was because she had learned not to fight certain battles. "I do not need to inform you of the importance of an heir, I hope? The people must be assured that the Crown is strong, especially with Stannis Baratheon contesting us."

"Of course," Margaery said quietly. "We...are trying. We are most eager for a child."

Cersei snorted. "There is no need for trying on the man's part, my dear. Only for us females. That was the design of the gods when they created us to bleed monthly. We must bleed and bite our tongues and dry our eyes, but they find only pleasure in the bedchamber."

Margaery bit her lip. "Of course, Mother. I defer to your experience."

Cersei's eyes flashed. "I suggest you try faster, my dear girl. My son is...not known for his patience. There are...certain remedies that one might take, to quicken the womb and raise the chances for a child."

Margaery did not trust any advice Cersei gave her not to close her womb completely. "Please, Mother," she said sweetly, sitting on her divan and gesturing for Cersei to do the same, "Tell me more. I wish only to please my husband and the realm."

Cersei smiled coolly. "I shall have Grandmaester Pycelle make some of these herbs for you, my dear. They greatly helped me during my marriage to King Robert, may he rest in peace."

Margaery smiled widely. "Well, and I see the proof of their work every day," she said. "I find myself having no more doubts on the subject. But shouldn't I speak to the Grandmaester myself?"

Cersei reached out then, taking Margaery's hands in her own and looking at her with serious eyes. "Such things are better handled...discreetly, my dear. Should anyone in the Red Keep learn of your desire to have such potions made, they may fear for the potency of both yourself and the King. No; I shall see to these matters for you, as any goodmother might."

Margaery dipped her head in acceptance. "I am most grateful for your help in this matter," she told Cersei. "I want for nothing more than to please my king and the realm, and you seem to have more of a head for it than I."

Cersei lifted a brow; perhaps Margaery had gone too far in her wording. "You seem to be making progress with the King," she said, voice rather dry, and Margaery flushed.

"You are his mother," she told the older woman, "And I am sure that, once his infatuation with me due to our very recent wedding has begun to wear, as the duties of his kingship return to him, he will look again for his mother's expertise, as I do."

Cersei looked almost relieved at the words; Margaery was far more adept at hiding hers. "Do you think so?" she asked, playing with the cuff of Margaery's sleeve.

Margaery nodded. "Of course, goodmother. The bond between a mother and her child...it is so powerful, I have been told. I only hope to experience it soon, myself."

Cersei sent her a shark's smile. "I pray to the Mother that you do, everyday," she said soothingly. "For the good of the realm."

Chapter Text

“I had a visit from Cersei yesterday,” Margaery said with a sigh as she sank down into the seat beside Sansa in the gardens, under the little gazebo.

Sansa glanced up at her, face quickly morphing from one of happiness to see her, which always caused a pleasant sensation in Sansa's stomach to see returned, to one of alarm st the subject matter. “Was it about our time at the beach? I knew that I shouldn’t have...”

Margaery waved a hand dismissively. “Cersei’s been a right thorn in my side ever since I arrived in King’s Landing. I hope she hasn’t given you any trouble over our going swimming?” Margaery asked gently.

Sansa flushed, which was answer enough.

“Cersei ought to do us all a goodly favor and throw herself off the nearest cliff,” Margaery said indifferently, and Sansa gasped in surprise.

“Margaery! She is still the Queen Mother. She-”

“What, we’ve all been thinking it for a long time now,” Margaery pointed out indifferently, twirling her finger in her wine. “I shall speak to her about allowing you to go into the city without difficulty. She will listen to me, now that she thinks she has made herself a friend to me.”

The wine that Lady Reanna was pouring spilled over the goblet and onto Sansa’s sleeve and arm. She cried out in surprise, glanced down at the liquid.

It looked like blood.

“Reanna!” Margaery snapped, reaching out with a spare bit of cloth and wiping at Sansa’s ruined sleeve. “Honestly.”

“Apologies, Your Grace, my lady. I-”

“Be gone from my sight,” Margaery snapped at her, even as Reanna moved forward to wipe up the spill herself. “I think you’ve done enough damage this afternoon, don’t you?”

Reanna swallowed audibly, and then dipped her head. “Apologies, Your Grace. I will leave you then. Would you like me to send another of my ladies to replace me?”

Margaery waved a hand, and Reanna took the hint, departing with another curtsey.

Sansa forced her eyes away from the bit of skin that Reanna’s loose sleeve had revealed when she’d poured Sansa’s drink, and glanced back at Margaery as the lady left the room. “I don’t mind. I’m sure it was an honest mistake. My serving woman Shae will get rid of the stain,” she said, glancing down at her own sleeve and the red stain that Shae would most likely not be able to be rid of.

“Ah, the girl is becoming a menace,” Margaery said quietly, setting the cloth on the edge of the table. “My father should never have elevated her to become one of my ladies if she did not understand the honor of it. I dare say she wouldn’t have the interests of men like Ser Osmund back in the Reach.”

"I have noticed Lady Reanna acting strangely," Sansa agreed carefully, ignoring the mention of Ser Osmund, for she did not know why any girl would want his attentions. He was, after all, incapable of marrying her. "I, just the other day, noticed her speaking with Cersei." She spun back to Margaery. "What reason could she have for that?"

Margaery waved a hand dismissively. "Cersei has been attempting to recruit my ladies against me, as her spies," she said, pawing through the dresses as though they held far greater importance. "She has, as of yet, not succeeded."

Sansa felt a cold chill run through her, though it was hardly cold in this room, nor in all of King's Landing, compared to the North. "And if she does?"

Margaery glanced up at her, and, seeing the serious look on Sansa's face, walked closer and pulled her into her arms. "My ladies are all of House Tyrell and House Redwyne, loyal to me. They would not betray me to Cersei, and besides, I have nothing to hide."

Sansa blinked at her, thinking of the scars she had seen on Lady Reanna's arm, when she had moved to pour Sansa's drink, of the way her face had become gaunt and pale in recent weeks, her skittish eyes every time Cersei entered a room.

She was not certain that she was as sure of the girl's loyalty as Margaery. After all, pain, or even the threat of it, could make a person do anything.

Sansa, of all people, knew that.

“I think it far more likely that my lady Reanna is afflicted with a different malady,” Margaery went on. “She has spent rather too many mornings in her chambers, neglecting her duties because of tiredness or sickness, after late night meetings with Ser Osmund Kettleblack for me to think differently.”

Sansa blinked at her in surprise. “You think that she-“

Margaery sighed. “I suppose that answers the question of what I must do with her, and also whom that knight might be able to marry, out of my ladies. She will make him a fine wife and be far from here.”

She sounded almost worried as she said the words, and Sansa wondered why, if Margaery thought that was all there was to this situation.

Chapter Text

When Elinor Tyrell first arrived in Highgarden as a member of a lower branch of House Tyrell to be Margaery's pillow friend at the age of twelve, they had bonded from almost that moment onward. They both enjoyed similar things, both had similar attitudes about the ways of the world, and both had similar taste in bed partners.

To that end, they had bonded even more closely, and continued to do so since, regardless of whatever their current situation was.

It was not a romantic partnership; they knew each other too well for that, but one which suited and sated them both well enough.

And it was certainly suiting at least one of them now.

Elinor arched up from the bed, wrapping one arm around Margaery's back and splaying her fingers out over Margaery's arse, several fingers and a thumb dipping teasingly between her cheeks as her mouth claimed Margaery's own, wide and unyielding.

Margaery gasped a little at the sensation, pressing her chest into Elinor and pushing the other girl gently down into their shared bed, half-smirking as Elinor gasped and her legs fell open invitingly for her.

Elinor had always been so enthusiastic, in such matters, so very willing to have anything and everything Margaery or anyone else could give her.

Almost instinctively, for Margaery found that her mind was elsewhere, she reached between Elinor's legs, wondered if Ser Alyn had done this deed yet for his betrothed, and rubbed against the small nub she found there, barely listening as Elinor gasped and writhed beneath her, shoving hard against Margaery as her fingers clawed into Margaery's arse.

She hated to think that what she was doing today seemed almost like a duty, almost like what she did in the bedchamber with Joffrey at times, for she had always found this activity with Elinor to be far more fun than it seemed today.

When Elinor came, spurting onto the bed with a small cry, Margaery sighed, for she normally felt such excitement at being able to bring her pillow friend off so well, and she felt nothing, today.

Elinor, undeterred, reached up and began rubbing at Margaery's nipples until they hardened under her touch, digging a small digit into Margaery's arse until Margaery's body jerked and she gasped, pulling away from the younger girl.

"Margaery?" Elinor asked, still panting, her features twisting into concern rather than the ecstasy that she had been feeling before, and Margaery leaned down, giving her a guilty kiss.

"I'm sorry," Margaery said, pulling back and pushing her hair behind one ear as she collapsed onto the bed beside Elinor with a small sigh. Her hair fell in soft ripples over her breasts, the blanket that had been previously only covering Elinor falling around her waist. "I don't know what's gotten into me, lately."

Being on her moon's blood did not normally affect her in such a way, and, in any case, she had finished with it the other day.

Elinor was not like Joffrey. With Joffrey, she could easily fake such things in the bedroom, and not feel guilty for it after, for much of their relationship was more of the same, while Elinor saw her all the more easily, during such intimate things, and could not be fooled.

She should have known better than to try.

Elinor grinned up at her, eyes dancing impishly. "I do," she said, not bothering to sit up as she lay splayed out over Margaery's bed, reaching out and rubbing her fingers against Margaery's side playfully.

Margaery raised a brow. "Oh?" she asked, coquettishly. "Do you?" She ran a finger down Elinor's stomach, smirking when the other girl arched into the touch with a wanton moan, even so soon after coming in Margaery's hands.

"Oh, yes," Elinor grinned wickedly. "Sansa Stark."

Margaery's hand, kneading into the soft muscles of Elinor's stomach, pulled away at that. "Whatever are you talking about, dear Elinor?"

Elinor's smirk matched Margaery's own. "I've seen the way you look at her, cousin. As if she is the very reason you draw breath, and you wish to consume her. The same way Ser Alyn looks at me."

Margaery's lips twisted into a pout. "I would have thought that I was not so obvious in my desires, nor that you had found them out so quickly."

Elinor bit her lip. "Well, you needn't worry about the Stark girl figuring you out, nor about Joffrey. You have both of them easily fooled. But I have been your pillow friend since we were small, and I know you better than anyone, Margy. So? Out with it. When did you realize you felt that way about her?"

Margaery swallowed, biting her lip. "I'm not entirely sure when I started feeling that she was...more than a friend, to me," she said softly, and then, "No, that's not entirely true. I was in love with her from the moment I saw her in the rose gardens, so sad and serene and beautiful. I wanted nothing more than to see her smile, and when I did, I knew that I was lost, for I could not live without such a smile again."

Elinor giggled. "She must be very pretty when she smiles. Your poetry is far better than the shit that Ser Alyn sends me. You ought to give him pointers, that not everything can be compared to my cunt," she told the other girl, and Margaery laughed hollowly.

"It doesn't matter," she said finally, "For she will certainly never feel the same way about me. Sansa is...she's lovely, and such a good friend, but there are certain things that she is unmoving about, and her...Northern honor is one of them. We are both wed. To men. That is the end of it, to her mind."

Elinor pouted, at those words. "Well," she said finally, hands dipping between Margaery's thighs once more, causing the other girl to sigh as Elinor climbed atop her with the ease of one who had done this one hundred times, for she certainly had, and far many more than that. "She certainly doesn't know what she's missing, there. Perhaps you'll corrupt her, one day."

Margaery fell back against the pillows, spreading her legs in invitation. Her eyelids fluttered as she felt Elinor's fingers prod against the inside of her. "Perhaps..."

And, as Elinor’s fingers pushed inside of her, Margaery moaned and pretended that it was Sansa Stark, bringing her off instead, wondered how the thought sat so well in her mind.

Chapter Text

Sansa did not know how, but Margaery had somehow convinced Joffrey to allow her and Sansa to have their supper alone together, in Margaery's chambers, and he was not there to torment either one of them.

In fact, only Loras and another Kingsguard were there at all, standing in their customary position outside of the door, and of course one of Margaery's ladies, Lady Elinor, was serving their drinks, a secret smile on her face whenever she poured for Sansa.

The supper was one of the most enjoyable that Sansa had since arriving in King's Landing, and she had almost managed to forget that her friend had to get Joffrey's permission to have it alone with Sansa at all, considering that she was a prisoner here and that such formals things as dinners should be had with one's husband.

It made Sansa feel a secret thrill, nonetheless.

The food they ate was largely cakes and sweet wines and soup, and Sansa rather wondered at that, but Margaery did not seem to think that there was anything strange about the dinner, and so she did not protest.

They made it through most of the supper on small talk, which mostly meant that Margaery did the talking and Sansa listened, for Margaery ever so liked to talk about nothing for long periods of time on end, and Sansa never grew tired of hearing her voice, the kindest voice in King's Landing.

"Would you like one?" Margaery suddenly asked, gesturing to a bag of red candies sitting in a bag at the end of the table, by the other desserts, and Sansa realized that she had been staring at them, unfocused, for some time.

Sansa blinked down at the red candies rather dubiously. "What are they?"

She had never seen their like before, for they were dark and red with a white frost over them, small enough to fit more than one in her hand, and looked like blown glass.

"Candied roses," Margaery explained, picking one up and setting it on her tongue with a wide smile. "They're made almost purely of sugar, chocolate, and something that makes them so red. They've come from Highgarden," Margaery told her, holding one out, "My mother sent them."

Sansa reached out to pluck it from her fingers, but Margaery simply giggled, evading her fingers and placing the candied flower on her tongue, instead.

Sansa blushed, but didn't quite have time to think about that as the sugared treat melted in her mouth, delicious and sweet and reminding her strangely of Winterfell. She let out a little moan at the taste, as she felt the chocolate fill over her teeth and the warm red explode behind her tongue, and then blushed, glancing at Margaery.

Margaery was staring at her in rapt attention, no doubt wishing to know what she thought of the candy, and Sansa was sitting their moaning over it like...like...

"Do you like it?" Margaery asked finally, when Sansa had swallowed.

Sansa gulped the rest of it down, reaching for her wine as the taste lingered in her mouth. "It's delicious," she said, but her words were flat.

Margaery blinked at her. "Is something wrong?"

Now that the sweet taste was gone from her mouth, she missed it, as she missed the snow of Winterfell and the lemon cakes her septa would see made for her even though they were far more of a delicacy in Winterfell than in King's Landing.

She swallowed hard, and resisted the urge to reach for another one.

"Do you miss your mother?" Sansa asked, and Margaery glanced at her in surprise at the sudden change in topic. "I mean...only that you never see her. She seems to stay in Highgarden, all of the time. You must miss her."

Sansa missed her mother every second of every day.

When Joffrey had told her how her traitor mother and traitor brother had died, Sansa had wanted nothing more than to run from his presence, to be sick as he explained in graphic detail how they had cut her mother's throat open and watched her bleed, how her brother Robb had crawled across the floor to the body of his bride, only to die beside her and have his head cut from his body to be replaced with his direwolf’s head, paraded about the Freys' home for days.

Joffrey had been all too delighted to tell Sansa of how her family had spent their last few moments, and Sansa had had to smile and say that of course they had deserved them, because she knew what would happen if she said anything else.

She could not imagine, however, still being parted from her mother, had her mother still been living. She could not imagine willingly parting herself from her, as Margaery and her mother had done ever since the wedding.

Margaery shrugged elegantly. "She prefers the climate of the Reach, the...friendly air, there. And...She sends me letters, often, along with my brother Willas." She sent Sansa a long, knowing look. "Do you miss yours?"

Sansa stiffened. "I...I..."

Margaery leaned across the table and took both of Sansa’s hands in her own. "It's all right, Sansa, to miss them," she said, forcing Sansa to meet her eyes. "I know that Joffrey wants you to be perfect for him, as does the Queen Mother, but I don't ever want you to be perfect for me."

Sansa's lower lip wobbled. "I...I know that they were traitors and the worst sort of people, but..."

"They were still your family," Margaery finished, knowingly.

Sansa looked away. "I...I can't talk about this anymore."

Margaery smiled reassuringly. "Of course not. Would you like another candied rose?"

Sansa hesitated. "No, I don't think so."

Margaery nodded, but ate another herself.

Chapter Text

Loras walked into Margaery's chambers, fully clothed in his Kingsguard uniform, and collapsed onto the divan beside her without speaking a word, his face falling into one of her crocheted pillows as he let out a groan of frustration, his feet hanging over the side.

"I've heard that you've been sparring with Joffrey," Margaery said, not without sympathy, setting aside her book to reach out and brush at the hair on his nape.

Loras groaned again, half-turning to face her. "Your little shit of a husband is a horrible sport, at everything, Marg."

She smirked. "So I've been told. He has always been gallant and honorable when teaching me hunting, however."

Loras wrinkled his nose. "Because he's putting on airs in front of you. If you weren't there, don't think for a moment he wouldn't break his crossbow on the back of some servant the moment he missed a target."

Margaery cocked her head, lips pursed into a thin line. "I hope that he has not been doing that with you?" she asked gently, rubbing at his neck and pulling off the white cloak.

Loras groaned into the touch, rolling his neck. "No. Doesn't want to make himself look bad in front of the brother of his queen, though. I've had to let myself lose every day that we've sparred since he started it. I no doubt look like a joke in front of the rest of the Kingsguard, by now."

Margaery tsked. "I'm sure that's not true, Loras. They've seen you fight in tourneys and other battles long before this. They know what you're doing now. You're not the only Kingsguard to make himself appear a fool in front of his king."

Loras snorted, sitting up then. "You're rather too good at that," he said, pulling his hair out from under her fingers. "I can see how you've managed to keep Joffrey under wraps these past few months a bit more easily, now."

Margaery shrugged. "Have some crackers, Brother, they'll do you good." She handed him the small tin sitting on the table in front of their sofa, and Loras dutifully took a bite, and then, glancing at her, another.

"What's in these?" he asked.

Margaery shrugged one shoulder, going back to her book and opening it up to the place where she had left off. "Grandmother had them made for me. Some sort of concoction with strawberry cake mixed into them. I haven't decided if I like them or not."

"Grandmother, eh?" Loras asked, but took another one in spite of this.

Margaery flipped to the next page of her book. "Why does Ser Osmund never spar with His Grace?"

Loras glanced up at her. "Ser Osmund? You're on first name basis with them now?"

"He's one of the many Kingsguard who watches out for me throughout the days, Brother dear, but I've noticed that he has never been asked to do so with the King when he wishes to spar."

Loras shrugged. "He's more fit for fists and fisticuffs, and the little shit may be stupid about some things, but he knows he wouldn't last for more than three seconds in such a fight."

Margaery nodded. "You shouldn't call him that." Loras muttered something unpleasant under his breath, but Margaery ploughed on. "So you admit that my lord husband has some skill at swords?"

Loras snorted. "I could admit that a pig had some skill with a blade if it were true in some extent, dear sister. In any event, if your husband wasn't such a bloody coward, he might, yes."

Margaery clucked her tongue. "My husband is the King, Loras. Be careful."

Loras stood to his feet, groaning a little as he did so. "I've been careful," he muttered, sounding almost petulant now. "I'm growing tired of it."

"What's our family's motto, Loras?" Margaery asked, sounding bored as her fingers reached for another cracker and her eyes skimmed the page of her book.

Loras grimaced. "Patience is a very good way of filling one's pockets," he offered helpfully, and Margaery glanced up at him, frowning and looking less than impressed.

He reached out and snatched the book from her fingers, tossing it onto the table and yanking Margaery to her feet. She yelped playfully, smacking at his arm.

"You have such an influence over your husband," he said suddenly, pulling her against him, "You could probably talk him into doing whatever you wanted."

Margaery tilted her head. "Probably," she murmured under her breath, and then giggled.

"Talk him into letting us go home to Highgarden for a little," Loras suggested, facial expression turning suddenly serious. "I could go as your honor guard and we could visit Garlan and Leonette. You could even bring Sansa."

Margaery raised an eyebrow. "What's brought this on?"

He groaned. "I think I shall die if I have to stay here another day, Sister."

She grabbed him suddenly, expression fierce. "Don't say things like that, Loras. They aren't funny. And, in any case, Joffrey would never agree to such a thing."

Loras pouted. "I thought you said that he would do anything you wanted."

"Within reasonable limits," Margaery said, leaning forward. "I have to be here to want them."

Loras sighed. "Don't you miss it?"

"You think I don't?" she asked, quietly. "I miss Highgarden so much. Everything about this place is just so...wrong. But my hold over Joffrey only exists for as long as I am here to keep it. If I mention leaving he will think that I am fleeing, and he will lose interest in me, or...he will change it to the interest he feels for Sansa Stark."

Loras grimaced. "Growing strong," he muttered rather resentfully, and Margaery nodded, fixing his hair.

"Growing strong," she repeated. "But you don't have to remain here forever. I'm sure that I could think of some way to get you to Highgarden for a little, if you so wanted."

"Are you japing, sister?" Loras demanded, turning on her, and Margaery bit back a smile. "I'd never leave you here. I suppose we will just have to brave King's Landing forever."

"Not forever," Margaery told him gently. "Some day, we won't have to brave it."

Chapter Text

"You've a visitor, Your Grace," Elinor told her, and Margaery glanced up from where Alla and Megga were helping her apply her morning jewels, red, just like Joffrey enjoyed them. Like blood.

"Sansa?"

Elinor smirked. "No, Your Grace. Ser Osmund Kettleblack."

Margaery's brow furrowed, remembering the last time that she had encountered him. "That's strange. Isn't Loras already supposedly guarding me?" She knew her brother to be down the hall, engaged in carnal relations with that blonde whore who had so turned his head since arriving in King's Landing, but she had not thought that the Lord Commander would send her another guard, for surely he did not know of it.

Her brother was, after all, usually more discreet than that. The whore was very persistent.

"He said it was a private matter, Your Grace," Elinor said, with a little shrug. "I can send him away, if you like."

Margaery lifted a brow, intrigued. "No, no, send him in. Alla, Megga, perhaps some time alone? I do not know what this private matter is of, but I can guess."

The girls exchanged glances; Lady Reanna had not arrived to help her lady dress this morning, once again. One of the ladies had reported to Margaery that she had seemed ill this morning, unable to keep anything down.

"Of course, Your Grace," her ladies told her, though Elinor gave her a rather concerned look, before they turned and exited, and, moments later, Ser Osmund Kettleblack took their place.

"Your Grace," Ser Osmund dipped his head as Elinor shut the door behind him, "I would like to apologize for my unforgivable behavior the other day. I was wrong...to express such things toward you, for you are not a woman, but a queen."

Margaery stared at him in surprise. She had not expected an apology, after all. Much the opposite; she could sense Cersei's frustrations every time she rejected her knight, and she knew that Cersei's patience would not last much longer. She intended to be prepared for the event, as well.

"I confess, Ser Osmund, the matter had been almost entirely forgotten," she said gently. "But it is certainly forgiven, so long as it does not occur again."

He dipped his head. "Of course, Your Grace."

She turned away from him and back to her jewels, picking out another silver broach to go along with the red jewels, and that was when he struck.

A strong arm latched around her wrist, the other on her shoulder, spinning Margaery around and knocking the breath out of her. Her broach fell to the ground with a soft thud.

And then Ser Osmund kissed her, a hard, unyielding kiss that stank of alcohol and resolve and bitterness, and Margaery flailed against it, finally succeeding in pushing the man off of her. Her lips felt bruised from the contact, and she wiped his spit from her mouth with a grimace.

"Ser Osmund," Margaery said quietly, reaching up and taking hold of the hand sitting on her shoulder. "You are a fine knight and a good man, but I am beloved of my husband."

Ser Osmund sucked in a breath. "Your Grace-"

She attempted to pull away, but his hold on her did not loosen, not even with her words. His grip on her shoulder tightened minutely, instead. "Ser Osmund, please-"

"Surely you cannot love such a creature," he said quietly, staring at her intently. "Your husband is a monster, Your Grace."

She lifted her chin defiantly. "He is my husband."

"Your Grace..." Ser Osmund's eyes looked her up and down. "I..."

"Unhand me, Ser Osmund," Margaery said, her voice steely, but Ser Osmund did not listen to the words, instead backed her against the wall of her bedchambers, across the room from her bed, arms on either side of her, effectively locking her in place. She swallowed, feeling suddenly claustrophobic as the walls of the room seemed to close in around her, as his great arms actually did so.

She thought of Elia Martell, facing down a creature even greater than this one in a room not very far away from this one, and struggled against the hold, attempted to slip out from underneath his bracing arms.

He grabbed her left arm, twisting it savagely to stop the attempt, and Margaery let out a whimper as she heard it pop ominously.

"Ser Osmund!"

His hands reached out then, one to wrap around her waist and pull against him, before pinning both of her hands together, the other to wrap around the back of her pale, thin neck. Margaery froze.

Ser Osmund peppered kisses along the nape of her neck, whispering all the while, "You are most beautiful, Your Grace, I could not resist myself. I have...dreamt of doing this to you, since the moment I first laid eyes on you in the audience chamber of the Red Keep, when you were promised to King Joffrey. I want..."

Margaery began to struggle against him then in earnest, for she knew what was to come, knew that a soiled wife of the King was worth nothing to anyone.

"If you do not unhand me, Ser Osmund..."

"I bet that I could make it better for you than that little fool Joffrey," Ser Osmund whispered against her skin, and the words sent shivers down her spine. His kisses felt like they were leaving stains on her skin. "I'll make it good for you, as well. Better than he does, no doubt."

She shook her head, struggled against his grip, to no avail. "Ser Osmund, let me go. Whatever she has promised you, whatever she has threatened you with – I can protect you. I am the Queen."

His hand around her neck squeezed lightly, and Margaery froze.

"I am sorry, Your Grace," she thought she heard him whisper against her vulnerable throat, but it might have just been a trick of the wind caused by Ser Osmund throwing her down onto her own bed with a loud thump, his hands roving her body as he began to strip himself of the heavy armor of the Kingsguard, his white cloak falling to the ground about his feet.

Oddly fitting, that.

Margaery attempted to scream once she recovered her breath from being thrown onto her back, the sound coming out a startled cry, and her throat had never failed her so badly in her life. She flailed, attempted to roll onto her side, to get her elbows under her, but he pushed her down, the palm of his hand splaying out over her chest and keeping her there, even as she fought against it.

"Ser-"

He slapped her, hard, and Margaery's head swung back against the sheets. She let out a strangled whimper as the knight climbed atop her, closed her eyes and turned her head away before he pulled it back and forced their lips together in a mockery of a kiss. The hand not on her chest reached out and grabbed her by the wrists, pulling them above her head and holding them there.

His breath tasted of garlic, and Margaery gagged.

While his mouth opened and his tongue forced its way between her teeth, she could hear him working at the drawstrings of his trousers, felt them fall around his knees and her waist.

She bit his tongue, and he groaned, pulling away from her, if only a little. But then she could feel his hand, the one not holding her wrists, pull her gown up around her waist and yank down her smallclothes, could hear the sound of them ripping a little with the movements.

Margaery bucked against him, whimpering, and Ser Osmund let his legs fall on either side of her petite waist, keeping her still as his fingers jammed inside of her mercilessly and worked her open like a whore after a bloody battle. Margaery gasped in pain, squeezed her eyes shut.

She was a Queen of Westeros, not a whore at the end of a battle. Ser Osmund had not seen a battle since Blackwater Bay. She may have been forced to allow him this chance to defile her, but she would not allow him to take her pride, as well. Would not allow him to take her crown.

And Margaery fought, thought of the crossbow standing on its end in the corner of her room, thought that if only she could grab it, she could...she could...

What, exactly? Margaery Tyrell had never killed someone before. She did not even know if, had she been holding the crossbow when Ser Osmund walked in, she would have been able to pull the release.

She had not reported him to her husband or her brother the first time Ser Osmund approached her, though she knew his intent. Had said nothing because, despite that he was an agent of Cersei's, she had not wanted him to be killed for that very reason.

And her kindness had fucked her. Was about to, just now.

"Please stop this..." she rasped, beginning to see stars at the corner of her vision. She wondered if his purpose was to rape her or strangle her to death.

"Be quiet, Your Grace," she heard Ser Osmund say above her, pressing his lips to her chin, her delicate throat. She wondered what Cersei had said to convince him to do this, if she had threatened him or he had relished the opportunity to see what his queen's cunt tasted like.

His hands moved down to her breasts, cupping them through her gown, and then he was ripping the front of her gown open. He took a dusky nipple into his lips, his ear scraping against her cheek as his hand continued to open her up for him, and she wondered that he even bothered to take the time to prepare her, but she was rather more horrified in the knowledge that her cunt was growing wet beneath his ministrations.

Perhaps he thought it would assuage his guilt, to trick himself into believing that she wanted this more than he did.

It was one thing for her to become wet for Joffrey. It was quite another for it to betray her to Cersei's puppet.

Margaery pressed herself firmly into the blankets of her bed, and wished for it to end soon. She did not trust her shaking hands enough to make another attempt to push him off her, knew that she would only be met with her own weakness, in the moment.

Her hands were shaking so badly that she wasn't sure if the tremors racking her were from herself or Ser Osmund, who, above her, looked just as discomfited as she felt.

And yet, she could not bring herself to pity him.

She knew that she had ruined herself, by not speaking earlier, when she'd had the chance. A ruined queen was no use at all, especially one who had failed even to give her husband a child first.

Cersei had, of course, known that.

Ser Osmund's hard length pressed into her thigh, then further, gods, he was hard, and Margaery bit down on his ear as hard as she could manage, in their awkward position.

Ser Osmund let out a scream of pain and attempted to pull away, but Margaery did not dare open her mouth, did not dare let go as her teeth bit into the tender flesh of his ear, as his blood flooded into her mouth, thick and warm.

It tasted like copper, like her brother Loras had once told her when he downed a knight during a tourney by nearly biting off his finger.

"Your Grace!" a voice that sounded rather like Elinor's was screaming, and then someone was pulling Osmund off of her, and she barely recognized her brother's snarling face as he shoved the flat of his sword against Ser Osmund's chest, screaming at him as spittle flew from his mouth.

Margaery screamed as well, and then wilted in relief as she felt Ser Osmund’s body pulled away from her own.

Elinor was at her side a moment later, helping her to sit up and running her fingers nervously through Margaery's hair, asking over and over again in a whispered voice if she was well, and Margaery thought the other girl might be crying.

Ser Osmund's ear was sitting in a mess on the sheets in front of her, and Margaery stared at it, her eyes somewhat unfocused, and wondered if that was what he'd wanted, to not be able to hear her while he violated her.

That thought startled a laugh out of her, and she saw Loras and Elinor glance at her in concern. Margaery reached up, but her face was almost painfully dry.

Her hands were still shaking so badly that she almost poked her own eye out, and Elinor moved forward, took Margaery's hands in hers. Margaery took a shuddering breath.

"I'm all right," she assured them both, and then turned hard eyes on Ser Osmund. "He...He did not quite manage it."

If anything, the words only seemed to make her brother angrier, and he shoved Ser Osmund against the wall, yelling something at him that Margaery could not understand, despite that she was sitting right there, and should have been.

Elinor rubbed her back comfortingly.

Eventually, Loras' shouting words began to make sense to her, and she shivered, having never seen her brother so livid. Elinor wrapped her arms around Margaery comfortingly, and Margaery leaned into the touch, as much as she allowed herself to.

"How dare you lay hands on the Queen, you filthy excuse for a knight!" her brother was shouting at Ser Osmund. "It was your duty to protect her!"

Ser Osmund glanced from Loras to her, and then back again, licking his lips rather nervously.

Margaery saw that his trousers were no longer tented with the evidence of his arousal, and felt a small bit of relief at that, and then pity.

His ear was still gushing blood.

Margaery had done that. She paled, looked away. "Loras."

Her brother glanced back at her, and she didn't think she had ever seen such anger in his eyes, not when Renly had died, not when he had learned that their family planned to marry her to the little beast his lover had told him ample information about.

"He must face the King's Justice, not yours," she said, as gently as she could manage in the wake of that storm, and she could see the indecision in her brother's eyes. Could see how much he wished to kill his fellow Kingsguard.

But it was true. If Elinor had heard a scuffle, if Loras had in the middle of relations with his whore, then no doubt others had as well, and it would take only one testimony for Cersei to bring her down, to damn her with such evidence to her king, no matter how well she controlled Joffrey.

So Margaery had to act first.

"Are you all right?"

"Loras, I'm fine," she said gently, affecting a shaky smile even as she realized that it likely looked more like a grimace.

"He did not...?"

"No," Margaery assured her brother. "He did not."

Finally, Loras lowered his gaze, giving Ser Osmund a shove towards the door without another word.

As Loras dragged Ser Osmund away, Elinor turned to her. "Your Grace-"

"I'm fine," she said, gently pushing the other girl's hands away. She thought the lie might have been easier for them to swallow if her hands weren't still shaking, and clasped them together, shoving them into her lap.

"Margaery," Elinor said gently. "You've been through a horrible ordeal. It's all right to feel not in control, for once."

"Rip a part of my dress," Margaery said then, lifting her chin in defiance of the words, rather than her friend, and Elinor blinked at her.

"Margaery?"

"Do it, Elinor, please. Down the front."

The dress was already ripped somewhat, of course, and disheveled, but not enough. Not as much as Margaery would need it to be.

Her husband was hardly a man moved with sympathy, after all. No, the only thing that moved Joffrey was violence.

Elinor blinked at her once more, but she was used to the machinations of her lady by now, and Margaery could see her mind working even as she moved forward and ripped Margaery's gown down the front, leaving just enough to preserve her modesty and little else.

And, when it was done, Elinor sighed, pulling back.

"You should clean that," she said, gesturing to Margaery's chin, and Margaery reached up, surprised; her hand came away bloody. Elinor reached for it with the hem of her gown, intent on wiping it away.

"Leave it," Margaery told her, and Elinor blinked at her. "Joffrey will like it."

Elinor's eyes widened. "Margaery-"

"I should go to him now. If I leave open too much time, Cersei will..."

"Are you all right?" Elinor interrupted her patiently, eyes filled with concern. "Really."

Margaery lifted her chin. "I am a Tyrell, Elinor, as are you. We grow strong no matter our circumstances. Help me to the throne room, would you? I...I'm not sure that I will be able to walk the whole way, on my own."

Chapter Text

"My lady," Joffrey murmured as Margaery swept into the throne room, the purple bruises on her face and arm having already begun to bloom. She had told Loras that it would be better this way, to wait until there was evidence of Ser Osmund's mistreatment of her before going to Joffrey. "What has happened to you?"

He sounded almost concerned.

She had not known, not truly, how he was going to react. Had not known if Cersei had one anyway, and she ought to have let Ser Osmund finish the deed, if House Tyrell would find itself returning to Highgarden this night, until this very moment.

She knew now, though, that she could still spin this to her favor. Because her husband, horrific fiend though he was, seemed concerned for her.

Cersei, from where she sat next to her son, stood abruptly, eyes roving over Margaery's form with a look that could almost be alarm before she quickly schooled her expression.

Margaery allowed her lower lip to wobble and her hands to shake, as much weakness as she would allow herself to show before Joffrey, not meeting her husband's eyes as she twisted her fingers in the hem of her torn gown. "Your Grace..."

"What has happened?" Joffrey turned and demanded of Ser Loras, from where he stood seething beside his sister.

"This disgusting cur attempted to force himself on my sister," Loras cried out, for the whole of the court to hear as he pointed back toward Ser Osmund, held now between Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Meryn. The side of his head was coated in blood from where Margaery had bitten him, so much blood, dripping down onto his white cloak and spilling onto the floor.

"He would have managed it as well, for he was set to guard her for the day, had she not managed to stop him."

"Loras," Margaery said quietly, subdued, her voice scratchy from where Ser Osmund had' had his hands around her throat, "I hardly managed that. I only screamed."

"She bit him, Your Grace," Loras went on, heedless of her words, and she wondered if anyone else noticed how rehearsed his words seemed. Cersei was too pale to have noticed. "I would not have found him in time, had she not managed to stop him herself."

Joffrey blinked in surprise, turning to his lady wife. "Is this true, Margaery? That you...bit Ser Osmund, and he did not succeed in his...attempt on you? He didn't...touch you?"

Margaery swallowed, lifted her chin. The blood that had gushed down her chin and throat when she had bitten his ear was still visible there, dried as it was. As were the bruises. "I would sooner have let him kill than touch me, my love."

"Bring him here!" Joffrey screeched the moment she had closed her mouth once more. "How dare a member of the Kingsguard, a position given to them of honor by their king, lay a hand on my wife? Presume to...to fuck the wife of the King, as if she were a common whore and not a queen? Bring him!"

Ser Jaime and Ser Meryn dragged ser Osmund forward, throwing him before the Iron Throne without pause.

Ser Osmund fell to his knees at once, staring up at Joffrey in supplication. "Your Grace..."

"Quiet, you," Joffrey snapped at him. "We're having a trial here."

There were titters of laughter from those assembled at the court, but they were more subdued than usual, eyes flitting from Joffrey to Ser Osmund to where Margaery still stood not far away from him, in her ripped and bloodied clothes.

Joffrey reached out a hand, and, after hesitating only a moment, Margaery stepped around Ser Osmund and walked to him, taking it. He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them.

For a moment, she thought that he was going to suck on them, there in front of the whole court, but he merely asked, "How would you like him to die, my lady?"

Margaery forced her lips to quirk into that of a smile, even as she felt her insides roil. "I do understand that treason is usually punished in a specific manner." She paused, raised her eyes beneath her eyelashes to her husband. "Bring me his head, my love."

She understood that there were other, worse punishments for rapists that she could have chosen from, ones that her sick husband would have enjoyed far more, but even now, Margaery could not bring herself to suggest one of them.

It was different, when she was watching her husband carry out such sentences. It was different, watching rather than actively participating.

There was no reason to feel guilt, when one merely watched.

Joffrey grinned, turning to Ser Illyn Payne. "You heard my lady," he ordered the man. "I want it done here, in the throne room. My lady must be tired, after her ordeal. Make it quick, though the bastard hardly deserves that."

Ser Illyn Payne needed no more encouragement than that. He turned as if to leave the room, no doubt in search of his ax, when Jaime Lannister held out his sword, handle out, his expression grim. Ser Illyn stepped forward, grasping it in both hands.

Ser Osmund bowed his head toward the ground, not even struggling against the holds of the two Kingsguard grasping him.

Margaery wondered if he regretted what he had done. If he hadn't enjoyed it.

"Isn't there anything you'd like to say, Ser Osmund, before you die?" Joffrey asked gleefully, Margaery momentarily forgotten in lieu of his lust for another's blood. He stepped forward, rubbing his hands together like an excited child.

Ser Osmund swallowed hard. "No, Your Grace."

Out of the corner of her eye, Margaery saw Cersei smile, before the expression vanished completely and she effected a frown.

Joffrey was frowning, as well, though his was far more heartfelt. "Well then, I suppose there's nothing else to be said." He glared at Ser Payne. "Take his balls, too. He won’t be needing them. Well?"

And, with two swings of Ser Jaime Lannister's Valyrian blade, Ser Osmund Kettleblack was dead. His head fell to the floor of the throne room with a dull thud, blood staining his Kingsguard cloak and the wooden tiles.

Joffrey had been right. His death was far too quick, even if, in her heart, Margaery knew that he was not the one she should seek justice from.

She swallowed hard, and rubbed at her throat, and wondered if it wouldn't have been better to wait, for her image in the eyes of the Court, of the people. For her own sanity.

"Bring it here," Joffrey ordered, and Margaery rubbed her lips together as the executioner brought Ser Osmund's dripping head, the man's eyes squeezed shut and face stuck in an expression of terror, to his king.

She grimaced at the smell, as it got closer.

"For you, my queen," Joffrey told Margaery, grinning. "Does it satisfy you?"

In answer, Margaery reached out with both hands and took the dripping head from Ser Illyn. Joffrey's grin faltered for only a moment, and then widened further still.

The gap on the side of Ser Osmund's head where his ear was missing stared back at her accusingly, as his eyes remained stubbornly shut.

"I shall treasure it more than I did Ser Osmund while he lived," she told Joffrey blithely, and Joffrey's loud laughter echoed through the hall for far too long. Some of the other courtiers began to laugh along with their king as well.

Margaery noticed that Cersei was not among them, not this time.

"Ahem," Grandmaester Pycelle coughed once the laughter had died down, and he had been given a particularly stern look from Cersei. He stepped forward, giving the king and queen a little bow.

Joffrey rolled his eyes. "What is it now, Grandmaester? Do you require the head to purify it before it can be staked on the city walls?"

"Unfortunately, I am afraid that now I must ask that the Queen be examined," the Grandmaester said in his halting, dottery tones. "It is the protocol, in such a situation."

"If my queen says that the fool did not succeed, then I believe her," Joffrey said coldly. "Are you questioning me?"

"Of...Of course not, Your Grace," the Grandmaester said with surprising smoothness, before glancing once more at Cersei. Her lips were pressed together into a thin line, and he continued, "Only-"

"Only what?" Joffrey interrupted him, sneering now. "Only my queen?"

Grandmaester Pycelle swallowed, glancing at Margaery. "Your Grace...Surely, you can understand the...unique position that this puts the Crown in, especially should the Queen have a child in recent months-"

"My. Queen. Has. Not. Been. Touched!" Joffrey screeched, reaching out and pulling Margaery against him. She stumbled forward, fell against his touch. "Any man who questions that can join Ser Osmund in his punishment for defiling her!"

Silence met his words.

And then Margaery stepped forward, placing a hand on his arm. "I don't mind, my love. I have nothing to hide. If the Grandmaester and the people would be contented only with such an examination, then I will gladly-"

"I said that you wouldn't, and you won't," Joffrey snapped at her, and Margaery bit her lip before nodding silently. "Unless the Grandmaester believes that he is above his king."

The Grandmaester simply scraped and bowed and murmured his excuses, and didn't once look at a now glowering Cersei.

"Now, m'lady," Joffrey made an about turn, grinning down at her, "I'm rather hungry. What about you?"

She smiled; it was more of a grimace, but she had noticed that Joffrey did not seem to understand the difference between the two. "I think that I should change first, my love."

He blinked at her for a moment, and then laughed. "Of course. I suppose you should go and clean yourself up."

Margaery smiled, despite the pain in her throat, and stepped on her tip toes, kissing his cheek.

"Thank you, my love."

He flushed a little. It was almost endearing. "Anything for my lady."

Chapter Text

The news of what had happened in the throne room did not reach Sansa until late the next day, when she overheard two servants speaking about it in rather low, excited terms outside her door, having woken up, for once, long after her lord husband.

He had not approached the topic of their consummating their marriage since Shae had made it rather clear what she thought of such things, and Sansa could not be more happy to have the serving woman as her friend, even if Shae could be overbearing at times.

He had been rather kind to her last night, all things considered, almost too kind, and it had set Sansa on edge, worried that he knew something she did not.

He had been too kind to her when the news of her family's deaths had reached King's Landing.

But that did not mean that Sansa thought for a moment that her lord husband would wait forever, and if she had spent most of the night tossing and turning and thus caused herself to sleep far later than he, it hardly mattered.

"They say it happened in the Maidenvault, and that now the Queen will not go into her private chambers again," one of the servants outside Sansa's door was whispering to the other when she opened it. "The King is enraged."

Sansa paused, glancing at the servants, glad that they had not noticed her yet.

"They say the Queen ordered his death immediately because she didn't want the King to know that she had already been ruined," the other servant whispered loudly. "And now she is nervous that there will be a child."

"Nonsense," the other said. "Did you not see the blood on her? The Knight of Flowers said that she had bitten his ear off, and we could all see it. That woman may be a whore, but she would not allow her honor to be so obviously impugned where the King would have witness of it."

Sansa cleared her throat loudly, and the two servants fell silent, looking up with wide eyes.

"Back to work," she snapped at them, and was pleasantly surprised when they moved away and actually returned to their work, for precious few of the servants of King's Landing obeyed Sansa so easily.

Perhaps they had heard the fierceness in her voice, the slight growl that she had not actually tried for, the panic bubbling up somewhere deep inside of her as she put together the pieces of what the servants had been gossiping about.

Margaery had been attacked. Margaery had been raped by someone who's ear she had bitten off.

Sansa did not even realize she was running until she found herself almost in the Maidenvault, where dozens of servants were carrying Margaery's things out of her room, tables and chairs and the wardrobe she so adored and her vanity.

Sansa paused, brought up short with surprise, and then she saw Elinor Tyrell, carrying some of Margaery's favorite gowns draped over her arm.

"Lady Sansa," Elinor said, blinking in surprise. "Are you here to see Margaery?"

Sansa swallowed hard. "I heard...I heard what happened. How is she?"

Elinor shrugged, her eyes growing soft and sorrowful. "She is very strong, our queen. If you're looking for her, she should be almost done at the targeting range. His Grace took her there some hours ago."

Sansa nodded her thanks, suddenly worried. She wanted to know, of course, how Margaery was, wanted to see her with her own eyes after what she had heard, but she did not want to be forced to face Joffrey.

After a moment's indecision, Sansa found her way to the targeting range.

She was just in time, it seemed, for Margaery was handing off a bow that even Sansa could admit was beautiful to a squire, and kissing Joffrey's cheek, a dazzling smile on her face.

Sansa did not know how she could manage one.

"Sansa!" Joffrey called, seeing her suddenly, a wicked grin on his face. "My lady and I were just finishing shooting, but we could always go back to it. Would you like to be the new target for us?"

Sansa paled, glancing at Margaery in panic.

Margaery just smiled, slipping her hand into Joffrey's. "I am rather tired, my love. Perhaps another time. Though it was kind of you to teach me some more."

Joffrey glanced at her, and, to Sansa's surprise, his eyes seemed to soften. She wondered what her hold was on him that he would feel so greatly for her even after the scandal of her having been raped, would not set her aside when he had the right to, did not torment her for it.

Sansa knew that, had she been in Margaery's place, Joffrey would no doubt be taunting her about it, asking her why she was so weak, as, indeed, he already did, believing as he did that Tyrion raped her every night.

"Of course," he said, bobbing his head like a small child. Then, "I'll leave you then, my lady." He kissed her fingers, and then turned with his retinue of Kingsguard and servants and left the two of them alone on the archery field.

"Sansa," Margaery said with a smile. "I suppose you came looking for me in the Maidenvault. I'll be spending my nights more permanently in Joffrey's chambers now, I'm afraid, though I'm sure we can still find time to-"

"Are you all right?" Sansa blurted out, and Margaery blinked at her. "Only, I heard what happened yesterday, that someone-"

"I'll survive," Margaery said, and if her tone was rather short, Sansa certainly didn't blame her for it. "It was a horrible experience, but it's over now, and Joffrey is teaching me how to defend myself with a bow better in the future, should it happen again."

"Did you have time to grab a bow and set it before he attacked you?" Sansa blurted out, and then paled at the same time that Margaery's smile fell. "I'm sorry. I..."

The truth was, her mind had been rather too often on rape these days, what with the threat of her husband looming over her.

And she knew, from her deeply imagined fears, that she herself would likely not have time to reach for such a weapon, if Joffrey came for her in the night.

"It's all right," Margaery said gently, starting to walk back toward the Red Keep, and Sansa followed her dutifully, the two Kingsguard behind her. "My brother Loras has taught me such skills as would cause me better help in such a situation since I was a little girl."

Sansa blinked at that, somewhat surprised. Her mother had always forbade her learning such things from her brothers, and Sansa had never really had any interest in it at the time either, for it was certainly not a ladylike thing to learn.

Margaery smiled at the surprise on her face. "Not that it helped me overmuch, but he was always concerned."

"That's not what I heard," Sansa said quietly. "I heard that you managed to...mutilate him."

"Yes," Margaery agreed, somehow serene despite the subject matter. "I was rather desperate, at that time." And, at the bemused look on Sansa's face, "He did not succeed in...what he set out to do. I and Loras saw to that."

Sansa swallowed. "I...I'm glad," she whispered out hoarsely, and resisted her sudden urge to rush forward and throw her arms around the other girl. For some reason, she felt that it would not be appreciated. "But are you...?"

"Osmund Kettleblack is no longer considered a member of the Kingsguard," Margaery said calmly, and Sansa blanched at the knowledge that Margaery's attacker had been one of the Kingsguard, glancing behind her nervously. Ser Loras gave her a rather cool smile. "His name has been stripped from all works, and my husband had his body chopped into pieces and given them to the dogs to eat. He will be forgotten within the months to come, while my name will remain forever. I don't see why I should be upset. It is over now."

Sansa stared at her, wondered if those words belonged to Margaery Tyrell, or to the creature that she had to become to survive at Court.

It hurt, though she knew it shouldn't, to think that Margaery felt the need to don that creature for Sansa.

"Margaery..."

Margaery shook her head, giving Sansa a smile that she knew was fake. "I think it's better not to talk about it," she told the other girl. "I no longer sleep in the Maidenvault, and no one dares to say his name around me. Soon, it will pass from all memory."

Sansa nodded sympathetically. "Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked, hating the way that her voice cracked as she said the words, and, even as she said them, wondering what she could do. She was just Sansa Stark, incapable of even leaving the city without Margaery.

Margaery didn't meet her eyes. "Just...tell me about Winterfell," she said quietly, rubbing the pads of her fingers together in what Sansa guessed was a nervous gesture.

"About Winterfell?" Sansa asked, in some surprise.

Margaery nodded. "Only if it isn't too painful for you, of course." She shook her head. "Actually, you don't have to say anything, but..."

Sansa had the strange feeling that she would gladly jump from the parapets of the wall surrounding the city if Margaery had asked it of her, in that moment.

"I..." she swallowed. "It's funny, the sort of things you miss about some place you've not been to in a while. I...I think about the lemon cakes there. They were my favorite, you know." Margaery lifted a brow at that, though Sansa couldn't imagine why, but let her continue. "There's something about the ones in the South...they're sweeter, softer, while the ones in the North are tart. I didn't use to like them as much, but now..." she shrugged. "I miss them."

She didn't know if her words were even helping Margaery, why she was talking about lemon cakes, of all things, but Margaery nodded for her to continue.

Her voice a little shaky, Sansa did so.

Chapter Text

"My dear," Cersei said, sweeping into Joffrey’s rooms as though she owned them, holding a cup that stank horribly, "I hope that you have recovered from your horrible ordeal? I had not thought that perhaps I should not give you the...remedy, until you are certain that any danger has passed? I have it here with me, of course, but..."

Margaery had moved into Joffrey’s chambers completely, after the Ordeal, as it was now being called by those who did not wish to incur Joffrey’s wrath. There would be no more privacy, and there was precious little time with Sansa now, for the girl found every excuse not to go to Joffrey’s chambers, and Margaery did not blame her, but she could not stand the sight of the Maidenvault any longer, and Joffrey certainly did not seem to mind the change.

For one who was infamous for his temper, her husband’s rage certainly ran out quickly, once it was incurred. Unless one had the name of Sansa Stark. She doubted he would understand why intimate relations were slightly less appealing to her now, even if Margaery had attempted to explain it, or hinted at such, at any point.

And so, she’d had to leave the room.

His chambers were no less opulent than her own, and the change had not been a difficult one, however.

Even if it meant that Cersei found even more chances to spend time near her, now.

Margaery bit her lip. "The...ordeal certainly shook me, but Ser Osmund did not...I mean, merely that there was no chance for him to..."

"Ah," Cersei said, and looked almost disappointed, and Margaery had her answer. "Then perhaps it is a good thing that I brought it." She opened the lid of the strange bottle in her hands, and held it out to Margaery.

Margaery took the cup from Cersei with a smile. "And...what did the Grandmaester say was in these remedies, Goodmother?"

Cersei appeared to be biting the inside of her cheek. "Herbs, my dear, and several potions. Truthfully, I didn't pay much attention at the time. I was rather desperate for a child."

Margaery nodded, tilting the cup that she might take a sip of the substance, before frowning and swirling at it with her fingers, instead. "It was most kind of you to go to the trouble, Goodmother. I do not know what I would have done without your advice and knowledge, these last few days. You must have learned so much during your time as queen."

Cersei's smile was brittle. "Indeed."

"And as a mother," Margaery went on, undeterred by the woman's stony answers and face. "I...confess, that I am rather worried, in that regard. My lady mother has only ever instructed me on the wonders of being a mother, and my grandmother hardly remembers such a time. I...I have heard," she went on, carefully, "That the birthing can be...painful."

She glanced up at Cersei with just the appropriate amount of worry in her eyes.

Cersei, to her surprise, gave her a smile that looked as though it was almost meant to be reassuring. "It can be," she admitted.

Margaery worried her lower lip. "I wish to please my husband, of course, but I confess that I am rather worried over the pain." She glanced down at the cup in her hands.

Cersei nodded. "I remember the day I gave birth to Joffrey. There was so much blood, everywhere, and I was sick at the sight of it. I had never really been taught of these things, you understand. They don't wish to let unwed ladies know of the trials of childbirth, lest they refuse their husbands when they are married."

Margaery's smile was slightly strained.

"And it was the worst pain that I had ever felt in my life," Cersei went on, a far off look in her eyes. "I felt as though my body was being ripped open with the blunt edge of a knife. I was terrified that I was going to die, and begged for my ladies to pray to the Seven. But then," and Margaery saw that the wistful smile on Cersei's face was perhaps the closest thing to a true smile she had ever seen on the woman. "Then I held my baby boy in my arms, so beautiful and perfect and covered in my blood, and it was worth it."

She glanced up at Margaery. "That will be you, one day, my dear. Children are a mother's only comfort, in this cruel world."

Margaery swallowed hard, opened her mouth to speak, but then Cersei cleared her throat.

"I shall leave you to it," she said, nodding to the cup. "Make sure to drink it all, or it will not have the desired effects."

A shade fell behind Margaery's eyes. "Of course, Goodmother. And again, it was so kind of you to help me in this. I only hope that my children will bring me half the joy yours bring you."

She wondered if Joffrey still brought Cersei any joy at all.

Cersei’s smile was brittle. “I am sure that they will, my dear. We mothers cannot help but love our children from the moment they come out of the womb no matter what they do. Enjoy the drink. I hope it brings you what we seek.”

The door swung quietly shut behind her.

Margaery turned, and poured the concoction into the plant at her window, turning back just in time when Lady Reanna entered the room behind her.

“Your Grace,” she curtseyed, eying the cup in Margaery’s hands.

Margaery sent her a dazzling smile. “Lady Reanna. You’re on time, today. Almost early, even.”

Lady Reanna dipped her head. “I would like to apologize for my actions lately, Your Grace. I have been...distracted by the pleasures of Court life. It will not happen again, I assure you.”

Margaery smiled at her. Ser Osmund was dead, of course, so there was no reason for it to happen again. “Wonderful. I’m glad. Come and help me with this broach my lord husband gave me, would you?”

Chapter Text

There were things that Loras Tyrell did not need to know. He didn’t need to know, for example, in intimate detail, what his sister and her new husband did with their night hours, nor did he need to know what her husband thought of his sister in intimate detail.

There had been talk, Margaery had told him after the fact, of being rid of Joffrey before the conjugal act, though nothing had come of it when House Tyrell learned that doing so would mean aligning themselves with Littlefinger, and it had been apparently decided by his family that Loras did not need to know of this, either.

The only reason he did know was because Margaery worried that one day he might drive his sword through the little freak’s back and become another Kingslayer, and she wanted him to know that there were previsions in place.

Loras did not even know if that was the truth, or merely his sister attempting to placate him, every time he was forced to watch Joffrey squeeze her wrists a little too tightly or listen to the noises he elicited from her at night, standing as he did always by their door.

He understood why his family had chosen not to tell him about the thoughts of getting rid of Joffrey, knew that he was hotheaded, after the debacle with the Stark girl. That loose lips were dangerous things, and that Margaery’s safety came above his worry over her safety.

But he wished that he would tell her about how she was feeling, after what that cur had attempted to do to her. From what he could hear of their nights together, almost every night, he knew that Joffrey never forced her, that in fact, Margaery took the initiative most nights, much as it made him sick.

Margaery had nearly been raped, and while most of the kingdom was concerned about whether she might grow pregnant with a rapist's child rather than the King's, Loras was merely concerned with his sister.

She had grown even more standoffish lately, telling him nothing of her true feelings and treating him as he felt she treated everyone who wasn't their family, with a veneer of herself that he could not see past.

He had apologized to her, for not being there when she needed him most, and Margaery had brushed this off as an idle concern.

He hated it, even as he knew that she did not have the privilege of being able to speak freely about anything, and especially about what had happened to her, if she wanted everyone to forget about it quickly, as she seemed intent on.

The knowledge that he had been fucking Olyvar in another room when he should have been protecting her, as was his duty, while his sister had nearly been raped left a burden on Loras' shoulders that he was not sure he would ever fulfill.

Margaery had assured that it wasn't his fault, but she was hardly speaking to him now, spending most of her time with Elinor or the Stark girl, and he was afraid that he'd lost her.

She was with Joffrey now, Joffrey and several of her ladies and half a dozen Kingsguard, including Jaime Lannister who, even if Loras did not particularly like, was more than capable of protecting his sister’s honor and gaining his respect.

She was safe, for now.

He wondered if his life was doomed to be one of disappointment, for himself and for everyone around him.

The knowledge that his loose lips had sunken a marriage of considerable use to his family did not bother Loras as much as it should have, however. He had spent little enough time with the Stark girl, but he did not judge her as the sort who would be happy trading one prison for another.

And while her treatment would be kinder in Highgarden, and her husband kinder in Willas than the Imp, Loras did not think it would be a happy experience for the girl who looked at him and saw a knight out of a song. And he did not think his brother would enjoy attempting to make the girl happy for the rest of his life, and ultimately failing. Willas deserved better than that.

Knights out of songs did not return to that which had damned them, as Loras had, not long after the marriage arrangement had been foiled, and yet, here he was, because he was hardly the sort of knight worthy of the songs. Because even after what had happened to his sister, he couldn't get the blond whore out of his head.

“Ser Loras,” one of Littlefinger’s whores, whom he did not recognize, smirked at him in greeting after opening the door to one of Littlefinger’s most popular pleasure houses. “Something I could do for you?”

Luscious blonde hair fell around naked shoulders, and for once, Loras was relieved that Margaery had managed to sway her husband into making him one of the Kingsguard, lest he would have had to marry someone like the Stark girl for the good of his family name.

His sister knew him better than he knew himself, sometimes.

Loras shook his head. “The whore Olyvar. Is he here?”

The girl pouted, drawing away and tossing her hair over her shoulders. “He’s in the back, m’lord. Filling out papers for Littlefinger. He’ll likely be some time.”

Loras nodded. “I know the way.”

She smirked at him, and did not object as he swept past her and into the corridor.

Loras largely ignored the whores milling about the whorehouse, trying to get his attention; as far as he knew, Olyvar was one of the only male whores in King's Landing worthy of mentioning amongst those few lords who dared to use him; he was also the best, and Loras had no interest in any other.

Olyvar had blonde hair and blue eyes, was lithe and small and aggressive in his desires, and Loras wanted no other.

When he reached the office that he knew from experience Littlefinger usually occupied, Loras propped it open, glancing inside without announcing his presence.

Olyvar was sitting at the desk, calmly writing away, and did not glance up when Loras entered the room, did not even seem to notice his entrance, though Loras knew differently; whores always noticed everything around them. Observation might gain them extra payment, or their lives.

Whichever was more valuable to them.

Loras was not yet sure which was more valuable to Olyvar, though he had an idea.

"Are you going to stand there in the doorway all day, my lord?" Olyvar asked coyly from where he sat continuing to write, glancing up under his lashes at Loras.

Loras grinned, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "That depends. Are you going to continue slaving away all day?"

Olyvar grinned, standing to his feet and setting aside the quill. "That depends, my lord, on what sort of slaving you have in mind."

Loras grinned, leaning forward and whispering something in Olyvar's ear that had the whore squirming under his touch when Loras went back to kissing him, licking the shell of his ear causing Olyvar to gasp in want.

“My lord,” Olyvar managed to murmur out, as Loras kissed his way down the other man’s neck. “What’s brought this on? I thought we’d agreed to meet in your chambers. You’d open a secret door for me? I love secret doors.”

Loras felt a pang of guilt as he remembered his promise to Margaery, to be more discreet, for her sake, for his sake. But he quickly the swept the feeling away, because he was here now, anyway, and he’d barely been able to constrain himself to his stockings up until this point, never mind up until the end of the week.

“Are you busy now?” Loras asked, sucking at Olyvar’s lithe neck.

Olyvar shuddered. “Not for the rest of the day, my lord, except these papers.”

“Come back to my rooms with me, in the Keep,” Loras said, pulling back a little. “I need you.”

Olyvar swallowed. “My lord-“

“Come with me,” Loras repeated.

Olyvar sighed, and Loras hid a grin as the younger man reached for his coat. “Very well, my lord, but I expect you to make it worth my while.”

This time, as he reached around and grabbed Olyvar by the waist with a smirk, he murmured, “Oh, I think I’ll manage that.”

Olyvar raised a brow. “I look forward to that, my lord.”

Loras was not quite sure how they had made it back to the Red Keep, nor how they had managed to do so without attracting the attention of his fellow Kingsguard or the City Watch. While his perversion was rather public in some circles, his family name kept it from being known by most, and he did know, despite Margaery's seeming to believe the opposite, if her constant warnings were anything to go by, that he had to be careful.

But there was something about the whore Olyvar that made him want to forget that, along with everything else he paid Olyvar to help him forget.

He sometimes wondered if Olyvar would continue to be with him if he did not pay the boy. When Olyvar had been posing as his squire to learn about Sansa Stark, he had not required payment, of course, but he was a busy man, now that Littlefinger had him back to his normal duties.

And Loras had known that he was a whore from the moment he first tumbled into bed with him. After all, ordinary squires were not so adept in the bedchamber, no matter whom they had served as squire previously.

"Gods be damned," Loras murmured, rubbing up against Olyvar in a random hallway that he was certain was close to his own chambers. "I need you."

He felt rather than heard Olyvar chuckling against him. "I do believe we're almost there, my lord."

"Damn," Loras glanced around, saw several of his fellow Kingsguard turning a corner and pulled Olyvar behind a nearby pillar. The Kingsguard passed them, unnoticing.

"You're fortunate to be a Kingsguard, my lord, and not a husband," Olyvar murmured throatily against his skin. "Believe me, I am very familiar with sneaking out of the bedroom after. I don't mind."

Loras shook his head, almost driven mad by the fact that Olyvar was even somewhat distracted as he dragged the whore the rest of the way to his chambers, and then shut the door swiftly behind them with his foot, tearing at Olyvar's clothes at the same time. "I'm off duty today. My sister and her husband the King are spending their day at the training ranges again."

Olyvar's face morphed into one of concern, but Loras knew that it was in fact, hunger for information. "I heard about the attack. How is she?"

Loras shrugged a little guiltily, pulling off Olyvar's doublet. He did not want to think about what had happened to his sister while he was bedding Olyvar. And while he allowed himself a little too much leeway in what he admitted to his whore, he would protect Margaery to the death, if he was able to, and that meant keeping back what he really thought about how she was feeling just now, he knew.

Even if a part of him wanted to tell Olyvar, wanted to confide it in someone so he didn't feel like he was the only one watching a ship sink, watching what was happening to his sister and knowing that he didn't know what to do about it.

"She's strong. A little shaken, but she's always been able to survive anything thrown at her. She'll survive this, too, and I'll never know how she's truly feeling about it all."

Olyvar clucked his tongue sympathetically, and then muttered under his breath, "Growing Strong."

Loras chuckled. "My sister takes the words to a new meaning altogether. Come now, Olyvar, out of these trousers."

Olyvar was quick to oblige him, and a moment later, Loras had him on the bed, fully naked, the sheets pooling about his legs as he spread them open in invitation.

Loras needed no further encouragement. He bent down, taking Olyvar's cock into his mouth and smirking up at the other boy before he wrapped his lips around it, enjoying the way he heard Olyvar moan and felt him writhe beneath him.

Renly had always been a quiet lover, afraid that they would be overheard, not willing to take the risk despite the fact that everyone who was important knew about them anyway.

When Olyvar shuddered, his body tightening, Loras pulled away, allowed Olyvar to come into his hand before turning Olyvar onto his back none too gently, not that Olyvar seemed to mind at all, if his moans of encouragement were anything to go by.

Olyvar let out an appreciative groan when Loras' first finger entered him, instinctively loosening his body as Loras reached behind him on the bed for the jug of oil he always kept nearby for such purposes, slicking his cock and entering Olyvar with little more preparation than that, not that Olyvar truly needed any.

"My lord," Olyvar grunted beneath him, fingers twisting in the blankets, "My lord, I'm going to-"

"Just a moment longer," Loras promised him, kissing the shell of Olyvar's ear and grunting as he felt himself come close. "Just a moment."

And then he was coming, and he was relieved when, along with all of the other times, Olyvar made no comment when he cried out Renly's name, before collapsing on the bed beside the blonde whore, vision going almost black with the strength of his orgasm.

When he was able to focus on his surroundings once more, he could feel Olyvar tracing the birthmark on his hip with his fingers.

"It looks like Dorne," Olyvar said, grinning up at him playfully.

Loras smirked. "It doesn't."

Olyvar shook his head stubbornly, chuckling under his breath. "It does. That's the...That's the Sunspear bay, right there, and that's where the mountains are, and over here is...Sun snake? Sun..."

"Sandstone," Loras said, lips pulling into a smile despite himself.

"Yes," Olyvar grinned impishly. "Sandstone. Just there." He kissed his fingers, and then pressed his fingers to the birthmark.

"Fine," Loras groaned, pulling Olyvar against him once more.

"We should go there. I think we would have a lovely time, judging by my experience."

"That would be wonderful," Loras said, kissing him again. "Dorne, Highgarden. Anywhere but here."

Margaery sighed, entering the room and glaring lightly at her brother. "We're late for dinner as it is," she said, picking up one of the cakes sitting on the table. She was growing fat lately, from all of this nibbling, she just knew it.

"You're very respectful," Loras barked out a laugh, as his whore moved to cover himself, blushing, though Margaery imagined he'd been seen by much more than she.

"I'm very hungry," she said primly, unapologetic, and Loras laughed again.

Margaery sighed, turning her attention on the whore. "What's your name?" she asked sweetly.

He hesitated, glanced at her brother before answering. "Olyvar, my lady."

Her smile turned cool. "I'm afraid my brother is keeping the king waiting, Olyvar."

He flushed, pushing off the blankets and getting to his feet, completely nude, and Margaery allowed herself to appreciate the sight of him as he marched across the room to grab up his clothes and then slipped away with a secret wink toward her brother, before turning to her. "My lady."

She wondered if he had seen her looking, or was merely saying goodbye as he ought to. Whatever the case, she dipped her head and watched him leave before turning back to Loras.

"Perhaps you might consider being a bit more discreet?"

Loras rolled his eyes, sitting up and throwing off the blankets as well. "Why? They all know about me anyway. Everybody knows everything about everyone. What's the point in trying to keep a secret in a place like this?"

Margaery sighed. "In any event, you shouldn't keep your brother's intended waiting."

"Willas' intended? Please. Not even Tywin Lannister can force Cersei to marry Willas. It'll never happen."

"Lucky him," Margaery muttered.

He smirked. "Unlucky you."

"You think I want that woman married to my brother?" Margaery asked incredulously, a little hurt.

"If she doesn't marry Willas, she doesn't go to Highgarden. Which means she stays in King's Landing. Which means you're trapped here with Cersei Lannister as your mother by law."

"Perhaps," Margaery agreed.

"Perhaps?"

"Perhaps." She paused, and her smile turned impish. "Perhaps I should ask Joffrey for her head," Margaery said sweetly, taking another bite of her sweet cake. "I think he might just give it to me."

Loras raised a brow. "Would he? He and his mother have always been disturbingly close."

Margaery shrugged, a small smirk on her features. "I do not think that even Joffrey's mother is worth more to him than the opportunity to see something hurt before him. And besides, he's been giving me so many, lately."

Loras grimaced, and wondered if his sister's marriage to Joffrey had left her slightly unbalanced. "What do you do with them?"

She shrugged. "It depends."

"On what?" he asked, lifting a brow incredulously.

"On what Joffrey wants me to do with them at the time that he gives them to me."

Loras sighed. "I don't know why you won't just let me kill him. The realm's already at war."

Margaery frowned at him. "Be careful with such talk, Loras. Nowhere is safe for it."

Loras rolled his eyes. "Yes, Your Grace. If you are not even safe in the capitol, how do you expect me to-"

"No one is safe in the capitol, Loras," she told her brother curtly. "Least of all the King and Queen."

He swallowed at her words, reminded of why she was saying them now. Of how insensitive he must have sounded, to say what he just had, when he sure as the seven hells hadn't meant it like that. "Margaery-"

“Hurry up,” she tossed some clothes at him, her manner brisk now, cooler, as it had been more and more recently. He wondered if his thoughtless words had just lost her for good. “We’ll be late for dinner.”

And then Margaery swept imperiously from the room.

"Shit," Loras blinked after her, and then sighed, reaching for a different pair of clothes, for Margaery, while certainly knowing how to dress in style, hardly knew how to dress a man. But he had rather lost his appetite, and he doubted that this supper would go over well even if he was wearing appropriate clothes.

Chapter Text

"The damned physicians say the fresh air of the rose gardens will help my constitution," Olenna Tyrell told her granddaughter as they sat under their signature gazebo late one afternoon, sipping teas and eating little cakes of meat and cheese. "While Lord Varys insists I try different potions of his. I think they're all liars, but they insist."

Margaery glanced up, meeting her eyes. "I'm glad to hear it, Grandmother. I've been worried about you, shut away in your chambers all of the time. Are you truly feeling better now?"

Olenna shook her head. "You needn't worry about an old woman long past her prime, my dear. Besides," her eyes darkened, "You have enough to worry about on your own."

Margaery lowered her head, staring down into her tea as she took another sip from it.

Olenna made an abortive motion toward reaching out to Margaery, toward the bruises on Margaery's face, still fading, before lowering her hand once more with a sigh. "How are you doing, my dear?"

Margaery sniffed. "I...I know it sounds wrong to say it, because it was such a horrible thing that could have happened but..." she glanced up, meeting her grandmother's eyes. "I feel fine. Completely fine. It didn't happen, and I felt sorry for Ser Osmund, while he was living, because I knew that he must be Cersei's puppet, but I don't feel anything for him now."

"Shameful," Olenna told her with a huff. "Absolutely shameful. They ought not to have forced you to look upon the man who had just-"

Margaery leaned forward, taking Olenna's wrinkled old hand in her own. "He didn't do anything, Grandmother. It didn't come to that."

"They ought to have drawn and quartered him, is what they ought to have done, and not made you decide his fate. It's absolutely disgusting that the Queen herself was attacked in such a way."

Margaery shrugged. "Cersei would have forced the situation into her favor if I gave her the time to think about it. Already, she's still trying to get me pregnant with a dead rapist's child. Or poisoned, before I can tell Joffrey of my suspicions." She cocked her head. "I'm not sure which it is yet."

Olenna's hand around her own tightened. "I won't let her," she vowed to her granddaughter, reaching out and cupping Margaery's cheek.

Margaery nodded. "I know, Grandmother."

"Ah," her grandmother's voice changed immediately, into an almost smile at the sight of Sansa, standing awkwardly at the edge of the garden clearing, hands fiddling adorably with her gown. "Lady Sansa. Do come and sit with us."

Sansa moved forward then, glancing at Margaery, who nodded gently at her, before sitting at the table with them, still looking rather nervous.

It was not the first time that she had encountered Sansa since the incident, and she knew that Sansa understood why she had done as she had when she confronted Joffrey about it, or, at least, she knew that Sansa said she knew she understood it.

Still, Sansa was acting rather nervous around her again, as she had before Margaery had cornered her in the library, what seemed an age ago, back when she had believed Margaery capable of violence.

She sighed, and stirred at her tea with her finger, wondered if her grandmother had noticed the gin she had slipped into it before partaking of it.

Then again, she had noticed the gin her grandmother had slipped into her own.

"Some tea for Lady Sansa," Olenna called to one of the servants, who swept forward and poured some into a fragile cup for Sansa before she could protest.

Sansa took a meek sip, and Margaery found herself feeling at least a little relieved to see it.

"Look at us, women," Olenna said suddenly, "The world may fail to turn when it should, but we are women, and we drink tea and endure."

Margaery set down her cup. "That's a poem, isn't it? I'm sure I've heard it before somewhere."

Olenna waved a hand dismissively. "If it is, I don't know whose, nor do I care. Ah! Lord Tywin."

Tywin Lannister was walking toward them, and the sight of him made Margaery nervous in spite of herself. She pulled her hands away from the tea cup and saucer, before anyone saw them shaking.

"Lady Olenna. Your Grace. Lady Sansa," Tywin said calmly, his face not changing expression throughout the greeting. He was holding a piece of parchment under his rail thin arms, and was staring openly at Margaery's grandmother, as if the other two ladies were not even present.

The Queen of Thorns glanced at the two of them and then at Lord Tywin. "Run along, girls. The adults need to speak now."

Sansa raised a brow, but Margaery simply laughed, linking her arm through Sansa's and pulling her away as Lord Tywin frowned after them disapprovingly before going to sit down with Olenna with that pinched expression still stuck on his face.

Sansa glanced at him nervously, but he did not seem to invest any more attention to her or to Margaery, getting into a rather heated conversation with the Lady Olenna before Margaery and she had even turned a corner in the gardens.

"What business does Lady Olenna have with Lord Tywin?" Sansa asked Margaery curiously.

Margaery smiled mysteriously. "I'm sure I have no idea."

Sansa raised an eyebrow at that, but Margaery seemed content not to elaborate at all. "Tell me, Sansa, have you ridden since arriving in King's Landing?"

Sansa blinked at her. "Ridden?"

"Horses," Margaery elaborated, with a small secret smirk.

Sansa stared at her for a beat longer before asking carefully, "Are you all right? After everything that's happened..."

"I wish people would stop asking me that," Margaery said gently, patting their entwined arms. "It happened, and it's over now. I will survive it. So. Riding?"

Sansa looked as though she might protest, before finally sighing and acquiescing. "That sounds lovely. In the Kingswood?"

Margaery understood her apprehension, then. "Joffrey will be caught up in matters of state all morning, from what I understand, and then sparring." She smiled. "We shall be all alone, there, save for, perhaps, a groom."

Chapter Text

Margaery Tyrell sat a horse as though she was born to it. As the stable boy handed her the reigns to her steed, a great hulking black creature with a closely shaved mane and white boots, Sansa climbed onto her own horse, a smaller grey who eyed her as though it thought her a nuisance.

Of course, they could not actually go alone, as Margaery had suggested the day before, and several of Margaery's ladies were accompanying them, but somehow they had managed to snatch Pod, Lord Tyrion's squire, and a Kingsguard who had not routinely abused Sansa into this venture, and no one had minded.

The courtiers and guards and Pod were riding well behind them, giving them enough room that their conversation would not be overheard, for which Sansa was rather relieved, for she knew, no matter who it was she spoke in front of, she could never quite be herself around Margaery if anyone was watching.

Suddenly, as they entered the well worn paths into the wood, Margaery threw her arms out and tilted her head back, laughing a little.

"Riding was my favorite pastime, back in Highgarden," she confided in Sansa, when Sansa mentioned it, and Sansa blushed a little, though she was not entirely sure why.

"I didn't appreciate it as much as I ought to have, in Winterfell," Sansa said quietly. Then, "I didn't appreciate many things as much as I ought to have."

"Hey," Margaery said, tone gentle, and that gave Sansa the courage to glance up. "We're not thinking, remember? The riding is supposed to help with that, not hinder it."

Sansa raised a brow, and then asked teasingly, "Do you not think often?"

Margaery stared at her in open surprise for a moment, before giggling. "As often as I can manage," she said, with a lilt in her voice that had Sansa giggling as well.

Like the day they had gone to the sea, Sansa managed to forget on this ride with Margaery, for a few hours, at the very least, that she was a prisoner of King's Landing, and wondered, this time, if that was why Margaery had suggested the riding as well.

She couldn't imagine going through what Margaery had gone through without breaking, couldn't quite understand how Margaery was managing to be as strong as she was, just now, and it confused her terribly.

She remembered the day that the Hound had saved her, before he had left her to fend for herself amongst the lions because she would not run away with him, remembered how terrified she had been, remembered how grateful she had been to the Hound for rescuing her from a fate worse than death.

Margaery had been rescued as well, but, from what Sansa had heard of it, she had largely rescued herself.

Sansa wondered what it had been like, biting a man's ear off out of sheer desperation.

Not thinking, yes, she'd forgotten.

They rode on in silence, Margaery throwing her head back to enjoy the riding with her eyes closed, and Sansa wondered if she was imagining herself back in the Reach, safe from Joffrey and potential rapists and the rest of King's Landing.

"That is the King's hunting lodge," Margaery told her at one point, breaking the silence to point out the wooden and stone building standing in the narrow grove of trees to their right. "Joffrey has told me about it, of course. He plans to take me there, when I'm good enough to hunt moving targets."

Sansa had a sudden worry. "Is he...do you think he will make you shoot...people, like he does with his crossbow, when you are good enough to hunt moving targets?"

Margaery flipped her hair, expression casual, but Sansa could see the tightness around her lips, the same fear reflected in her eyes. "I don't know. Would you like to turn back or keep going a while longer?"

And something wild in Sansa had her answering, "A while longer, if you don't mind, of course."

She didn't know when she had last been riding, didn't know when she would again have the opportunity to do so.

Margaery cast her a wry glance. "Not at all."

And so they rode on some more, until Sansa's eye was caught by a large, hulking tree, the area around it only grass, as though it had poisoned the ground to keep any other tree from planting itself nearby,

"What an odd tree," Margaery said, climbing down from her horse, and, with a sigh, feeling slightly compelled, Sansa climbed down as well, rubbing at the thin fabric covering her shoulders. She felt rather cold.

"It reminds me a bit..." Sansa swallowed. "There was a heart tree, back in Winterfell," she told Margaery. "It was where my family went to pray. There was something about it that was...comforting. A sanctuary, tucked away in a little spot in the godswood, far from anyone and anything."

"That's beautiful," Margaery said quietly, still staring up at the tree in lieu of Sansa. "Your people of the North pray to the old gods, don't they?" Margaery asked, and Sansa glanced at her. Margaery bit her lip. "Sorry, only, I thought that I had heard such things, but I have seen you in the Sept of Baelor many times."

Sansa shrugged. In truth, her family had never been overly religious, not in the way that the Lannisters played at here, making a spectacle of themselves when it suited their needs and appointing the High Septon. The Old Gods had been worshipped, by her mother and father, though she and her siblings had never been forced to worship themselves.

However, she could remember the first time that her mother had taken her to the old Heart Tree in the godswood, could remember how whimsical and wonderful the whole experience had been, could remember how easily she had listened to her Septa about how the Seven were the only true gods, how wonderful she had thought it when she had seen the Sept of Baelor for the first time, escorted by Joffrey and half a dozen knights, worshipping like a civilized lady.

"It is true that many in the North worship the old gods," she said softly. "My House was never very religious, though they did their duties. My mother found less comfort in the old gods than my father. She worshipped the Seven, as they do in the Eyrie." She shivered, glanced at Margaery. "What about you?"

Margaery glanced at her. "It is true that I spend many of my days in the Sept, praying to the Seven for a son for my king," she said quietly, "But I spend as many days imbibing strange mixtures and eating foods and rubbing oils on my skin and doing exercises that the physicians claim will help the process. I was never very religious, but I suppose it must be a great comfort, to be so."

Sansa glanced at the large almost heart tree, and shook her head. "It isn't," she told Margaery. "The gods, if they do exist, do so only to laugh at us."

Margaery linked arms with her suddenly, and Sansa turned to see her smiling sadly. "Then we should be our own gods," the other girl told her seriously. "Don't you think?"

And Sansa did not rightly know what caused her to commit heresy and nod pleasantly at the other girl.

Margaery seemed to simply have that effect on other people.

Chapter Text

"I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days."

Cersei was clenching her teeth so hard that Sansa was honestly surprised when her jaw did not crack while she gritted out those words, as Ser Loras, standing in for his brother who could not physically make the trip from Highgarden, especially so quickly, bent forward to kiss her.

Sansa had not even known that it was possible for someone to stand in for another at their own wedding, even if they were related, and she wondered if that meant Ser Loras would have to bed the Queen Mother as well, but apparently the Grandmaester had found some precedent for it, and though Cersei had objected strongly, Tywin had leapt at the opportunity this allowed him.

The announcement of the betrothal between Cersei Lannister and Willas Tyrell being returned to as a viable marriage between House Tyrell and House Lannister had come as a bit of a surprise to the Court, after Olenna Tyrell had fought tooth and nail to ensure that it did not come about the first time.

But, rumor had it, it had been Olenna Tyrell who had fought for the marriage, this time, and Tywin Lannister had been only too happy to ensure that it happened as quickly as possible, before Cersei could come up with some idea to thwart it. He wanted the alliance rather badly, of course, because it would mean that the Tyrells were no longer free to make another.

Or so Sansa's husband had told her, when she remarked on how strange it seemed that the Tyrells did not seem overly bothered by the prospect of a marriage with the Great Lioness.

She supposed that this was because they were happy enough to get Cersei away from Margaery before things escalated any more quickly, though Sansa could not imagine what they were thinking in inviting Cersei into their lives, into Highgarden.

Loras moved awkwardly to place a green and gold cloak over Cersei's shoulders, for she did not stoop to allow it, nor did she seem particularly pleased when the deed was done.

There was a dead coldness in her eyes that filled Sansa's insides with dread, even if she did not know what it signified.

There was only the most per functionary of cheering when Loras and Cersei turned about to face the crowd watching, House Tyrell some of the quietest, Sansa realized with some surprise.

Prince Oberyn looked rather amused by the proceedings, Sansa thought when she picked him out of the crowd, standing beside Ellaria, but the amusement was mostly shadowed by the concerned way he was watching the Tyrells, as if attempting to suss out what in the seven hells they were thinking.

Only one person seemed genuinely pleased with events besides Lord Tywin, though Sansa could hardly bring herself to be surprised.

Weddings always seemed to put Joffrey in a particular sort of mood.

He was grinning from where he stood before his mother, as a ceremony had been given for Loras, in Willas' place, to ask his king's permission to take Cersei to wife, and then Tywin had given her away.

It was not a ceremony that had been used at Sansa's wedding, for she'd had none to give her away anyway, and it was antiquated even then, but Joffrey had insisted, for "his mother's sake" he'd said, though no one really seemed to know what this meant, including Joffrey.

He’d wanted to give Cersei away himself, but Lord Tywin had insisted on it, as he was her father, and, if Joffrey was actually afraid of anyone, it was Tywin.

He leaned rather heavily on Margaery's arm through the whole thing, and, though Sansa wasn't close enough to smell it, she could tell by the wrinkling of Margaery's nose that his breath tasted of alcohol.

She knew that Margaery did not approve of drunkenness, anymore than Cersei had before Robert Baratheon's death. Wondered when that had changed for Cersei and if it would change for Margaery.

The thought, the comparison of Cersei to Margaery, repulsed her, however, and Sansa quickly put it from her mind.

"To the feast!" Joffrey shouted when it was all over, and dragged Margaery along beside him, Margaery affecting a pained smile as she followed him.

Cersei did not even affect that, disdaining Ser Loras' arm when he held it out to her and shrugging the Tyrell cloak from her shoulders.

Ser Loras reached back and snatched the cloak from the air before it fell to the ground, and glared at Cersei's back.

Beside Sansa, Lord Tyrion rolled his eyes, and then he was offering Sansa his arm, to lead her to the wedding feast.

Given what had just happened, Sansa figured that she had better take it.

The short trek from the Sept to the Red Keep seemed to last a lifetime, and, when it was completed and they had all taken their seats, Cersei and Loras first and Margaery and Joffrey next before anyone else, Sansa almost wilted into her chair out of sheer relief.

She didn't, though, because Joffrey was far too close for her comfort, and, if she had learned anything from his marriage to Margaery, from her own time with him, it was that she must never show him a weakness that he would be able to exploit.

The wedding feast was almost as awkward as she and Lord Tyrion's had been, though not nearly as awkward as the King's and Margaery's wedding.

Ser Loras drank with an enthusiasm that more suited Lord Tyrion, and Cersei, for once seeming sober, ate nothing and did not accept any congratulations, and looked as though she was planning ways to murder everyone in the room.

Sansa did not doubt that she was capable of it, and thus shrank back, where she hoped the woman did not see her, continuing to pick at her meal.

“I thought she’d get out of it right up until the moment they said their vows,” Tyrion whispered to her presently, and Sansa glanced at him. “When my lord father announced her upcoming nuptials to the family, she screamed herself hoarse with her threats."

Sansa realized that she must have been out riding that day, with Margaery, and flushed a little.

"Father wasn't fazed, of course," Tyrion went on, oblivious, "He usually isn't, but Jaime usually intercedes on her behalf. Didn't this time, though he's been sore about it since."

Sansa realized that, were she someone like Margaery, she would have learned to retain such information as Tyrion was so freely offering to her now to use at some point in the future, because surely that was significant, but she could think of no reason for it.

"The Tyrells don't seem pleased either," Tyrion said, glancing sideways at her, "Even though it was their idea."

Sansa well knew the reason for that; whatever their plot, Sansa wouldn't wish Cersei on anyone.

"My mother is going to be my goodsister now," Joffrey leaned over to shout rather loudly in Margaery's ear; Sansa could see that he'd spent rather too much time in the royal wine cellars lately, and wondered if this was Joffrey's influence; while she knew him to be a horrible beast in most ways, he had never been one much for drunkenness, before his wedding. It was not required to make him an uninhibited beast, after all.

Margaery patted her husband's arm lovingly. "Yes, and I suppose that makes her and I sisters now," she said, meeting Cersei's eyes as she said the words and giggling.

Cersei looked like she was contemplating putting her dinner knife through Margaery's eye, and was having a difficult time refraining.

Joffrey's face morphed, as though he were having trouble remembering how to laugh, before suddenly he shouted, "And you and I brother and sister. Just like Mother and Uncle Jaime. Isn't it strange?"

Tywin Lannister stood to his feet at those words, an expression not unlike a thundercloud filling his features, and then he was moving forward, no doubt to reprimand his grandson for such talk in front of so many.

Margaery smiled at him, her eyes narrowing playfully. "So strange, my love. I don't know how we shall manage it. Though I suppose we must pretend otherwise."

Sansa had a hard time keeping her mouth from falling open, and just barely managed it. Cersei's grip around the knife' hilt was causing her knuckles to go so white that Sansa could see the bone from where she sat.

"You're still my wife," Joffrey told her, rather imperiously, and Margaery nodded demurely.

"Of course, and I shall always be that," she said, and then leaned forward and whispered something in his ear that had Joffrey snickering.

It occurred to Sansa, then, that she would never have been able to do this. She would never have been able to sit by Joffrey's side as his wife for the rest of his life and appease him, even if her father hadn't become a traitor to the Crown. She would never have been able to laugh at his crude jokes and cause him to laugh in turn, to not wish to pull away every time he reached for her.

"Your Grace," Lord Tywin's calm voice broke through her musings, and Sansa glanced up to see him standing before the King and Queen with the reprimanding air of a grandfather. "Perhaps you've had enough to drink tonight. Queen Margaery shall escort you to your chambers."

Joffrey blinked up at his grandfather as though he were staring at a particularly fearsome animal, his mouth gaping open and then shutting like a fish for a few moments.

And then, from his side, "My love..."

"No!" Joffrey cried. "You can't make me. She's my mother; I ought to be here for her last day in King's Landing. I'm the King."

"Your Grace, perhaps this is a discussion you will like to forget come morning, when you have regained control of yourself. In the meantime..."

"No! I'm not going!" Joffrey shouted at him, and if he hadn't the attention of everyone at the wedding up until that point, he did now.

Cersei, from where she sat beside Loras, stood to her feet, looking rather pale. In truth, Sansa was beginning to wonder if she was not kicking up a fuss because her son was doing so just fine for the both of them, but surely that would mean nothing.

Surely Cersei knew that if her son realized she didn't want this, he would put a stop to it.

And yet, she was letting it happen, had let it happen. Sansa didn't understand why.

Tywin looked at Margaery as if he expected her to help him with this, but, at Joffrey's words, she seemed to undergo a different demeanor entirely, reaching forward to pour her own glass of wine and taking a long sip, her eyes cool as she laid her hand back on Joffrey's arm and told Lord Tywin, "The King has told you he doesn't wish to go. Who are you to tell him he must leave his own mother's wedding, Lord Tywin?"

Lord Tywin appeared to be grinding his teeth as badly as Cersei when he swept from the room.

Margaery smirked as she turned and kissed Joffrey full on the mouth.

Cersei's hand was digging so badly into the knife that Sansa was surprised it had not already cut her.

Chapter Text

The long trek leading Joffrey back to his chambers took immeasurably longer with the realization that not a single one of the Kingsguard escorting them was going to assist Margaery in keeping him upright.

She supposed that, were she not his wife and thus obligated to touch him at some point, Margaery would not willingly touch Joffrey either, and so it was understandable.

Her husband babbled alongside her as they walked, and Margaery nodded and agreed with whatever it was he was saying, her attention on other things.

Jaime Lannister opened the door, a grim expression on his face as he watched Margaery, and she wondered if he would mourn his sister’s leaving.

Wondered if he would want revenge on those who had demanded it, or if he would understand why Margaery had.

She was rather surprised he was here; she wondered if that was at Cersei’s prerogative, that she wanted him to promise to take care of her son. He was not usually the man on guard outside their chambers, and she would have expected him to be drowning his sorrows in some way.

She gave him a grateful nod as he shut the door behind them, and then turned back to her husband, about to suggest that either they sleep or try again for an heir, but Joffrey’s attention had already been arrested.

“Some more wine!” Joffrey crowed, scuttling across the room to it with far more ease than he had made the journey back to their chambers and pouring himself a glass. Margaery sighed.

“I think perhaps you’ve had enough, my love.”

He glared at her over the rim of his glass. “I haven’t. My father could stomach three whole days with nothing but wine, and so can I.”

Margaery rolled her eyes. “I can see that.”

“I’m not happy with you either,” he snapped out suddenly, and Margaery blinked at him. “I’ve noticed how you’ve been so withdrawn since that Osmund fellow tried to fuck you and I killed him.” He leaned forward suddenly, grabbing her by the wrists and twisting them savagely. “Were you in love with him and got found out? Is that why you’re acting like this?”

Margaery blinked at her husband in honest surprise, more surprised that he had managed to articulate all of those words in his current state than by their content. “Was I...Of course not, my love. I have only ever loved you.”

And it was true, in a certain sense of the word.

Joffrey’s features twisted. “You lying shrew!” he snapped, slapping her. And then he bent forward to kiss her mouth. Margaery turned, smelling the stench on his breath, and offered him her cheek, instead.

Joffrey grunted. “You see? Like that. My wife should be as happy to have her king bed her as any other woman, and yet you shrink away from me now. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Margaery raised a brow. “Maybe I simply need more time, my love, after that ordeal.”

He grunted again. “Why? It’s not as though you were actually raped, is it, Lady Margaery?”

He was squeezing her wrists again.

Margaery forced a smile. “Of course not, my love, but I confess that I get as little enjoyment out of bedding you as I did Ser Osmund, and I suppose the difference is a difficult one to decipher.”

Joffrey blinked stupidly at her. “W-What?”

Margaery’s smile became a little more genuine, then. “To bed, I think, my love. You’re very tired, and you’ll feel better about your mother in the morning.” She ignored his feeble protests as she dragged him to the bed and deposited him into it, half-smirking as she worked on stripping him down to his smallclothes.

“You…You can’t just put me to bed,” he protested, but Margaery ignored the words, pulling him onto the bed and pressing him under the covers. “I’m not a child.”

Margaery leaned forward, kissing him on the forehead. “Of course not, my love.”

He struggled against her for a few moments longer before sagging against the sheets.

Normally, she would lean forward and put her arms around him, would comfort and console him and tell him that he was a strong king and it would be all right, all the while thinking about what it would be like to smother him with a pillow, whether she would enjoy it or not.

But not tonight.

“She’ll be happy in Highgarden, won’t she?” he asked Margaery suddenly, and Margaery blinked at him.

It had never really occurred to her that her husband cared about anyone other than himself, though she knew that he had a close bond with his mother before she had arrived in King’s Landing. It would almost have been touching, if the object of his affection was anyone but Cersei Lannister.

“I very much doubt it, Your Grace,” she said quietly, “I very much doubt that she would be happy at all, separated from her darling child, and she will hate being at the tender mercies of my House.”

“Not a child,” Joffrey muttered petulantly, and Margaery rolled her eyes once again.

“Of course not, my love.”

“I could order her to stay here!” Joffrey shouted, with a sudden clarity. “She and Loras, and then she wouldn’t have to leave me at all.”

Margaery lifted a brow, unimpressed. “I’m afraid my brother Willas is her husband now, Your Grace, not Loras.”

Joffrey frowned, brows furrowing together in concentration. “Then…I could order him here!”

Margaery chewed on a nail. “And the wedding took place with Loras standing in because my brother would not make such a trip. Did you understand that at all, or did it go completely over your head?”

Joffrey blinked at her, no doubt certain that she had insulted him somehow, but uncertain exactly how. Margaery sighed.

And then he burst into hot, desperate tears.

Margaery was not a woman moved often; in fact, beyond her family, she could not think of anyone who had moved her to feel any real emotions, beyond Cersei and Sansa. Cersei in anger and Sansa in…Well, she had not quite figured that out, after all.

The crocodile tears and emotions that she allowed herself when she was being seen were for the benefit of others, always, and certainly did their job.

"She's gone," Joffrey said, sounding horrified as tears slipped from his slit eyes. “She’s really…she’s leaving me.”

"Yes," Margaery nodded, and he turned to glare at her, looking a tad surprised by her nonchalant acceptance of his words.

However, the glare didn’t last long, before his eyes welled up with tears once more.

Margaery bit back another sigh and smiled at her husband. “Sleep, my love. It will feel better in the morning.”

He swallowed hard, and then closed his eyes.

Margaery sat up beside him for a long time, waiting until she heard his hitching breaths even out in sleep, picking at her nails as she did so. Her hands shook as she did so.

When she was sure that her husband slept soundly, Margaery calmly reached for the wet cloth by her husband's bedside and set about methodically wiping at his face until it was clean of tear track marks, and then used the cloth to wipe the berries from her lips, and tossed it to the floor at the end of the bed before curling up in bed beside her husband.

In the morning, her dear husband would not remember most of the night beyond his first drink. Drunkenness had that pleasant effect on him, Margaery had learned to her pleasure, for she feared that her life would not be half so good now if it did not.

And if he remembered some anger, some ill feelings, he would attribute them to the loss of his mother, rather than Margaery.

She could afford this one night of freedom.

Chapter Text

It was determined that Cersei was to leave for Highgarden in the morning after her wedding, which had remained unconsummated and would continue to do so until she arrived at her husband's home, and she was gone even before Sansa awoke.

Strangely, Sansa did not feel as if some terrible weight had left her shoulders, with the news of Cersei's absence. Rather, something oppressive seemed to be hanging over King’s Landing with that information, as if the entirety of the city was holding its breath, waiting to see how Cersei would retaliate.

Cersei Lannister had left King's Landing, married to Willas Tyrell, the man whom, once upon a time, Sansa might have wed.

She almost could have laughed, at that. The Lannisters always took everything from her, and yet, this time, she could not bring herself to feel badly about it.

Cersei, who had long tormented her since her arrival here, no longer bothering with niceties once it became clear that Sansa was nothing more than a prisoner in a lion's den, could torment her no longer, from the other side of Westeros.

Joffrey might even be easier to contend with, if Sansa was not being attacked on both fronts.

She found that her husband was rather gleeful about the news, as well. Oh, he tried to be overt about it, limiting his joy to mere comments here and there, but she could see the extra bounce in his step, the more numerous smiles, could tell from the way he acted that first morning that he was just as pleased as Sansa ought to be.

She wondered if Cersei Lannister had been to him what Joffrey was to her.

"Some more lemon cakes, wife?" he asked pleasantly as they ate their morning breakfast, and, across the table, Shae raised a brow.

Sansa shrugged. "I suppose."

Tyrion blinked at her. "Something wrong?"

Sansa shook her head. "Of course not. I...I'm fine. Just...not very hungry, this morning."

Tyrion let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Between you and my brother, I have seen enough wasting away. Shae, give Lady Sansa some more lemon cakes. I rather think she's earned them."

Shae looked slightly amused as she passed the lemon cakes to Sansa, and Sansa dutifully took two.

She ate only half of one, but Lord Tyrion did not seem to notice. Shae did, if the flash of her eyes was any indication, but she said nothing.

"Well," Tyrion said, when she had finished picking at her food and he had downed another bottle of wine, "I'd best be going. The Small Council will want to meet, if my father has anything to say about it. And he won't like that the Tyrell girl made him look a fool at the wedding. There'll be seven hells to pay."

Sansa blinked at him. "You don't think...that she'll have to pay it, do you?" she asked nervously.

Tyrion sent her a small smile. "From what I've observed of our new queen, she is very resilient. I merely meant that my father will no doubt have something to say about the Tyrell granaries and soldiers who are still in the Reach." He paused. "What will you be doing today, my lady?"

She blinked; she hadn't really thought about it. Perhaps she would go to visit Margaery again, or Ellaria. Margaery would be more somber, Ellaria frustrating, as she tried to suss out the woman's purpose.

"I'm not sure," she told her husband honestly, and was rather surprised to see the warmth in his eyes when he bid her good day.

For once, it didn't look like pity, and she was relieved to see it.

"Do you have something you would like to do today, my lady?" Shae asked, when Lord Tyrion had left them in peace.

Sansa hesitated. "Would you like to go down to the harbor with me today, to look at the ships?"

Shae gave her a long look.

Sansa knew that the other woman had been somewhat surprised when she returned to King's Landing after going swimming with Margaery, knew and had not spoken to her about it since that day, some part of her worried that Shae would call her a coward for not running, not even making a real attempt, even thought she knew it had been Shae who had suggested she stay here.

Shae smiled, finally. "I would like that, my lady. Let me just go and get grab your shawl, so you don't catch a chill out there."

Sansa nodded, left to herself a moment later, and she sighed, resting her chin in her hands. Lord Tyrion had left the door to their chambers open, and that was why she heard them.

Two serving girls, and she was rather certain that they were the same girls she had reprimanded earlier, saying the horrible things they had said about Margaery after what had happened to her.

And, despite herself this time, Sansa found that she couldn't help but listen.

By the time they had reached the end of the hall and gone out of earshot, and Shae had returned, Sansa rather wished she hadn't.

"My lady?" she heard Shae's voice, trying to reach out to her, and she flinched away a little. "My lady, are you unwell?"

She was. Oh, she was.

She had seen the day that Cersei had approached Reanna Tyrell, had seen a deal made in Margaery's blood and said nothing, and Margaery had paid a steep price for it. Had said nothing, and Lady Reanna had died for it.

It seemed that Cersei's reach went farther than the Tyrells had thought, if she was still capable of murdering someone on the road to Highgarden.

Sansa would never be safe from her, not here, not in Dorne, if that was the case.

And this was her fault.

“I…I’m going to be sick,” she informed Shae, and barely noticed as the other woman pulled her to the nearest chamber pot just in time.

Chapter Text

Lady Reanna was dead, slaughtered in her chambers like an animal, the blood rumored to have stained the wooden flooring beyond repair.

She had been cut open from neck to navel.

Sansa did not know how her murderer had managed to muffle her screams, for surely Reanna must have screamed, but she had a good idea as to who the murderer was.

Margaery had grown annoyed, once again, at yet another late arrival by her lady, and swept down to the girl’s chambers in a flurry of skirts with several others of her ladies, no doubt intending to give her quite a lecture. She had been the one to find Lady Reanna.

The murder was to be investigated, by Tyrell agents, because Lady Reanna had been a member of House Tyrell, but Sansa knew already that they would find nothing, just as Margaery had been so convinced that Reanna was in fact seeing Ser Osmund, and not spying for Cersei.

She did not quite understand why, for Margaery hated Cersei and had made her hatred known Sansa, and a part of Sansa would very dearly like to see Cersei punished for something, even if she would never admit such a thing out loud, but Margaery seemed convinced that foul play was not afoot, that she had merely been wrong about the identity of Reanna's lover and that he had killed her when he learned her pregnant.

Or so she had said before going into seclusion, with only her husband and her other ladies allowed to disturb her.

Sansa had been rather sad at the loss.

An unpleasant business, to be sure, but not so unpleasant as the truth, and Margaery was no fool. She had to know it was not the truth, what she had told the court about her lady. Had to know that she was maligning the girl, however justly.

"Sansa?" a voice called, startling her out of her morbid thoughts.

She glanced up, rather surprised to see Lady Ellaria approaching her. "L-Ellaria," she greeted, her voice subdued, and wondered if she would ever be left alone, in this wretched place.

That was why she had come to the Sept, after all. So few people who bothered with Sansa came here, anymore.

Ellaria quickly affected a look of concern, at the tone of Sansa's voice. "Are you all right, my lady? You seem quite..." she shook her head. "Is something the matter?"

Sansa shook her head, and then nodded. "I...need to know something," she said quietly. "I need to know what you're planning, for when I come back with you to Dorne."

"I don't believe you understand," Ellaria said gently. "We don't. Have anything planned for you. It was a split second decision on Oberyn's part, as are most of his decisions, it seems."

Sansa shook her head. "What would happen to me there, then? And," she sent Ellaria a fierce look. "Don't simply tell me that I will be happy. I need to know."

"Sansa," Ellaria said quietly, "I have never lied to you."

Sansa lifted her chin. "Neither have the Lannisters, by that logic. Save for once. And they've made it quite clear that, if I remain in King's Landing, I am going to end up with a Lannister child in my belly. At least they are honest with their intentions, now that they have nothing to lose." She glanced up at Ellaria, picking at a spare piece of lint on her gown. "I am the only Stark the Lannisters have left. I knew that this would not be easy from the moment Prince Oberyn invited me to Dorne. I only wish I knew why you and he would be willing to pay such a price.”

Ellaria sank down beside her. “When Elia died, Oberyn was on his way to King’s Landing with an army,” she said quietly, staring down at her hands. “And I watched as her blamed himself for years after that, thinking that if only he had been sooner…”

“No,” Sansa interrupted her, and Ellaria glanced up. She hesitated upon saying her next words and potentially losing her strange allies, but they came up on their own. “A girl who made the Lannisters angry has just died. I don’t care to hear more emotional stories that explain away your reasoning. I would have you tell me what I want to know, or you can find someone else to take to Dorne with you.”

Ellaria’s eyes shuttered. “Very well. Ask your questions, but know that, as you have been, you may not be satisfied with them.”

“Will I become a prisoner there, inside a different gilded cage?” Sansa asked, glancing around at her surroundings.

“No,” Ellaria answered immediately. At Sansa’s look, she went on, “You made the decision to come with my Oberyn when he leaves here, Sansa. No one forced you to do that, and if you do not like it in Dorne…well, I do not rightly know what will happen to you, but we will not force you to remain there.”

“Are you taking me back as a way to gain power to the North?” she went on.

Ellaria raised a brow. “Our Southern blood runs a little too hot for the North, Lady Sansa.”

“Yes or no.”

A sigh. “You remind me rather of one of my daughters. No.”

“If the Lannisters…” she bit her lip, “Come after me, will you hand me over to them?”

This time, Ellaria did hesitate. “We would do everything within our power to help you, Sansa. And it saddens me greatly that no one else has bothered to do even that, before this.”

Sansa sucked in a breath. “And how do I know that any of the things that you say to me now are the truth?”

Ellaria’s eyes dimmed, but it was not from an emotion that Sansa quite recognized, and that rather unnerved her. “You do not, beyond our words, sweet girl, and I can understand the appeal of remaining in a gilded cage rather than facing the unknown. But I do not give my word in ill faith to anyone, and neither does Oberyn. His brother Doran will understand your plight, as well. You will be safe there, Sansa. No army, Lannister or Targaryen, has ever penetrated Dorne, and nor will it.”

She just had one final question. “Why does Prince Oberyn remain here? Why haven’t we left yet? What is his so important business that we must remain here?”

"Sansa..."

Sansa glanced up at her, eyes blown wide.

Ellaria hesitated, and then gave her a little smile. "Oberyn will be finished with his business here soon."

But Sansa had been hearing that for too long to believe it now, much as she would have liked to, and she knew that it would simply not be enough. She had to do this. She had to save herself, because no one else was going to do it for her.

Chapter Text

Sansa sighed, glancing up at her husband where he stood at the end of their table, evidently not having left for his courtly duties for the day. "My lord?"

Her husband took a deep breath, as though steeling himself, and then, "I was wondering if we might...talk?"

Sansa stiffened a little, and her husband held up his hands as if to stop her thoughts from leading to their natural progression, considering their last 'talk,' wincing a little.

"Not...not about that. Well...I mean, just to talk, Sansa. I promise you will like what I have to say a bit more this time." He grimaced. "I hope."

Sansa blinked at him as he waited, nodded once and watched him rather warily as he sank down into the seat across from her at the table.

Tyrion looked like he was steeling himself again, which did not bode well for her. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and then spoke.

"With my sister Cersei gone off to Highgarden to birth more Lannister babes, securing our family's power over the Tyrells, my father is far less interested in Winterfell's heir, just now," her lord husband told her carefully.

Sansa smoothed down her dress, and wondered if, after she laid with him, she would find the strength to smother him in the night as he slept.

"So...you're saying that now that she is gone, as long as we do not remind your father of it, he will leave us alone," Sansa said dubiously, raising a brow at her husband.

Her husband glanced away. "I merely meant-"

"That is a short term solution," Sansa said quietly. "And I need something a bit more long-term."

She reached forward, placing her husband's hand on her shoulder, trying not to flinch as she remembered the way he had touched her breasts, on their first night of marriage. "I think you should give me a son, my lord."

Her lord husband swallowed rather hard. "Sansa-" he attempted to pull his hand away, but she followed him, gaze intense.

"I thought...You had made your position on the matter quite clear, some time ago," Tyrion said, rather weakly.

Sansa swallowed thickly, licked her lips. "I've changed my mind."

Her husband looked rather skeptical about that, but wisely did not attempt to contradict her. "My lady-"

She leaned forward, hoped she looked alluring, as Margaery always did when she wanted something from her husband. "I've seen the way you look at me, sometimes. Don't you find me attractive, my lord husband? Don't you..." she swallowed hard. "Want this?"

Tyrion licked his lips, looking rather nervous now, though, from what she had heard, she did not see why he should need to be. "I..."

And this time, Sansa did guide his hand to her clothed breast, laid it down with the surety of someone with far more confidence than she.

"Please," she said quietly, and hoped he could not read the desperation in her face as she spoke.

Tyrion flinched. "A...All right," he said finally, and moved forward, laying her back against the bed gently, glancing at her one more time before starting the process of divesting her clothes.

When she was bare before him, he reached for the strings holding together his trousers, and she pretended not to see the way his hands were shaking, his trousers tenting.

She swallowed hard, biting her lip and thinking of Winterfell. Winterfell, and she swore by the old gods and the new in that moment that she would see it again, no matter what it took.

Even if it meant a Lannister child in her belly.

"I...I'm sorry," Tyrion said, pulling away abruptly, and, at Sansa's shocked look, "I'm sorry. I can’t. It isn't you."

Sansa looked at him incredulously. "You've been with...many ladies, Lord Tyrion," she said quietly, reaching out for him again. "Pretend I am one of them."

Lord Tyrion shook his head. "Sansa..."

She shook her head. "No, not Sansa," she told him, taking his hand in hers, leading it back downward. "Just someone."

He shook his head once more, climbing off of her and sitting down on the bed beside her. "And not a single one of them looked at me like you were just now," he said quietly. "Like they feared me, like they were resigned to this." He glanced at Sansa. "When I look at you...You are beautiful, yes, I would have to be a blind man not to notice that. But...I can't do this. I am sorry."

Sansa gritted her teeth. "Do you think that makes you a gentleman?" she snapped suddenly, and he glanced at her in surprise, but Sansa was far from done. "Because you won't be with a woman when she asks you to? Because you're kind enough to want her to love you?"

Tyrion glanced away. "Why do you want to sleep with me, Sansa?"

She swallowed, glanced down at her hands. "You are my husband."

"That hasn't influenced you before this," he said gently, reaching a hand out toward her, but Sansa flinched away. "Sansa."

"She's dead!" Sansa screamed at him finally. "She's dead, just like my mother, my father, my brother. All of them are dead, don't you understand? Because they didn't do what your sister, your father, Joffrey...wanted them to. And..." she swallowed hard. "You told me we could leave here, if only I had a child."

Tyrion's features softened. "Oh, Sansa..." he murmured, and then he did something he had not done since their wedding day, and long before that.

He pulled her in for an embrace, unyielding when Sansa stiffened against the touch but gentle, not allowing her to pull away even as Sansa squirmed away and tears began to slip down her cheeks.

Sansa sagged into the embrace, closing her eyes and pretending the arms were softer, longer. She didn't think anyone in King's Landing but Margaery had hugged her since her father died.

"She's dead," she whispered into the pillow. "She's dead, and Prince Oberyn cares for nothing but his business, and you care for nothing but your own pride."

"I care about you, Lady Sansa," Tyrion reassured her quietly. "And I promised to do my duty to you as a husband when you took my cloak. Even if I...cannot help you in the way you want, I will try to find a way to get you to Casterly Rock. Yes?"

Sansa hesitated for a moment, and then nodded shakily.

Because, stupid little girl as she may be, she believed him.

Let it never be said that Sansa Stark could not play the game of thrones, when she tried.

Chapter Text

Sansa smiled, not ashamed to admit that her heart had been lighter since Tyrion's promise that he would take her from this place as soon as he was able, her days with Joffrey tormenting her shorter than they had ever felt before.

The Martells may have promised to take her to Dorne, where she could be far away from the Lannisters, but she knew Tyrion Lannister. She knew that he did not go back on his word, as he had told her. That was why he had delivered her father's remains to her mother, why he had been so horrified by the Red Wedding.

Let it never be said that Sansa Stark did not know how to play the game of thrones.

She knew she could trust him, even if she didn't want to.

And it was a long journey, between King's Landing and Casterly Rock.

Tyrion had told her to tell no one of their plan while he got permission from his father, explaining that, while he would not tell his father the reason for their departure he would, unfortunately, need the man's permission.

She hoped to the old gods and the new that he had gotten it, as she opened the doors to their chambers.

She could hear his voice, and was just about to turn the corner into their living space when she heard another voice respond, one that made her go still.

"Do you know what he told me? That I merely hadn't...tried hard enough," Tyrion lamented. "Evidently, he 'little believes the conspiracies of maesters in regards to how a man and woman conceive,' and if I would just do my duty to my family as my sister has, I would be useful for that. Or...something like that." A sigh.

Jaime snorted. "He is right on one account. There would have to be some...attempt on your part at all, one would think."

"She's a child."

"I didn't say I blamed you," Jaime snapped, and there was a long pause, something that sounded like the pouring of wine before Tyrion spoke again, his voice softer this time.

"Are you all right, Jaime?"

A harsh intake of breath. "I asked Father to marry me off instead. Revoke my standing in the Kingsguard like he wants so badly and give me away to some Frey or Westerling, and...he refused. I can't..." a ragged breath. "This can't happen. Not again."

"Frankly, I'm surprised you aren't already off with her. Couldn't Cersei make up some excuse for needing her champion by her side? From what we know of the Tyrells, I doubt they would mind."

"Father wouldn't allow me to go with her," Ser Jaime muttered. "We asked. More than once." His voice was tellingly dry.

Tyrion cleared his throat. "Ah."

"I can't stand this," Ser Jaime complained, shoving his plate of food away. "To fight all that way back to her only to have Father marry her off again?"

Tyrion pushed the wine forward. "Our dear sister is quite resilient, Jaime. I'm sure wild horses could not keep her from King's Landing if they tried."

A pause. "He threatened her. It's why she didn't put up a fight. Didn't you think it strange?" An audible gulp, and Sansa thought back to Cersei, how dour and sober she had been on the night of her wedding feast. "She wouldn't have gone so easily if she'd thought there was a way out of it."

"He threatened Cersei." Tyrion sounded almost awed by this, which Sansa found rather sickening. Or maybe he was just amused. "With what? A Frey?"

Another long pause. "As...I understand it, he isn't pleased with the amount of control that the Tyrell girl has over Joffrey, and I can see why, after that display at the...wedding."

"I thought that was what he wanted from her."

"He wanted it from her as long as he could control the Tyrells. They're trash, but they know what they want, and they're quite willing to use their new queen to achieve it. The old Thorn withheld their grain from the city to get our father to reconsider the marriage betrothal. Funny, considering he was the one to propose it in the first place."

"I didn't even notice."

"Well, you wouldn't. Between you and...Cersei, I don't think either of you ingests a drop of anything that isn't wine." Another long sigh, a cup slamming down on a table.

"Quite right. But you still haven't said what he threatened Cersei with."

"From what I understand, he...implied that the Boar King'd more than one son, and that one was as good as another, maybe better." Ser Jaime sounded bitter.

A sharp laugh. And then, incredulous, "He wouldn't. She had to know that. Legacy is the only thing that matters to our father. The family. A dead king doesn't quite fit that."

"I don't think that matters to Cersei," Ser Jaime said flippantly. "Joffrey is her darling boy, and she will hear of no threats against him."

He sounded almost jealous of Joffrey, and Sansa grimaced, mind reeling.

One was as good as another.

Her hand fell down to her stomach, to the empty place she had wanted Tyrion to fill with child not two days ago, and felt a sharp sense of relief that he hadn't been able to follow through on a wish she had made while she wasn't properly thinking.

That her husband cared for his kingslaying brother was clear to see in their every interaction, and it made Sansa feel faintly ill as she backed out of the room and wiped at her eyes, blinking to realize that they were even wet.

Joffrey had often called her a little fool, in the days after her father had been murdered, taunting her over it and letting her know how naive she had been to believe him her storybook prince.

A reminder, for the times she had forgotten, that her husband was just as much of a monster as the rest of them. That the imp who slept in the same room as she each night was a Lannister.

She knew now that, even if she went with Prince Oberyn to Dorne, it would not be enough. That Cersei or Joffrey or even her lord husband would drag her back to King's Landing because they would never give up their Stark prize, that she would spend the rest of her life here if she could not change fate itself.

And she had already proven herself incapable of killing Joffrey, the worst of the Lannisters. Proven herself incapable of filling with a Lannister babe. She would have to find another solution, one that would not leave her their prisoner for the rest of her life.

She backed away, and hoped her lord husband and Ser Jaime Lannister did not hear her retreating footsteps.

Chapter Text

They were covered in blood, so much of it, everywhere, and yet, when Sansa looked at Margaery, she thought it was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen, Margaery covered in Joffrey's blood, smiling at her as the sun rose behind her back, the blood glistening on Margaery's glowing skin.

Sansa had never seen anything more beautiful.

"We did it," Sansa whispered, moving forward and taking both of Margaery's hands in her own.

Margaery grinned at her. "We did it," she agreed, and suddenly surged forward, capturing Sansa's mouth with her own and kissing her until Sansa couldn't breathe, until she gasped awake, clutching at the sheet of her bed, glancing nervously at Tyrion, who still snored beside her.

She hadn’t eaten dinner with him, taking it while he was still in a meeting with the Small Council, even if she could not depend on Margaery’s company, these days. She had made no comment about the time of her dinner, roughly an hour earlier than Sansa usually took it, and Sansa was rather grateful.

She had also pretended to be asleep when he returned, and Shae had not called her out on the deception though she must have known the truth, when Tyrion asked her about it.

It was all Sansa could do not to give herself away, when he crawled into the bed beside her.

She hadn't thought she would be able to fall asleep, was rather surprised that she had.

Sitting up, Sansa crawled as silent as she was able out of bed, flinching when Tyrion turned and moaned a woman's name in his sleep, before going still again. Sansa breathed in relief, reaching under the bed for the parcel of belongings she had packed for herself.

Another dress, for when she dirtied this one too much to wear. Her shawl. And nothing else, for she wanted nothing more of this place, no reminder of it.

And then Sansa stood and crept from the room, her bag clutched to her chest, and did not look back.

She walked for some time, through the corridors of the Red Keep, knowing that the guards kept the exits of the Keep guarded at all times, and that if she was not careful she would be seen.

But if she went out past the Maidenvault, where Margaery's family stayed even now, she might have a better chance of leaving without being seen. After all, Margaery stayed with Joffrey now, so there would be no Kingsguards there to catch her, for the Lannisters had made it clear how they felt about the Tyrells.

She moved as quickly and quietly as she could, hiding behind a pillar when several servants passed her, but for the most part, she was able to travel unseen altogether, for there were few people milling about the Keep at this time of the night.

When she made it to the Maidenvault, she let out a sigh of relief, and that was her damnation.

"What the hell are you doing out of your rooms, lady?" a very familiar voice asked, and then a sharp, painful hand gripped her wrist, yanking her out of the shadows. "The Queen has demanded a curfew in the Maidenvault." And then Ser Meryn blinked at her. "Lady Sansa."

Sansa swallowed, attempted to take a step back only to remember that Ser Meryn was still gripping her arm in an iron hold. "Ser Meryn-"

He glanced between her and the door just beyond her reach, now, before his eyes lit with a sadistic light. "Were you attempting to leave the Keep without the King's permission, my lady?"

The way he said 'my lady' made her cringe.

"No, I would never-"

"Perhaps we shall go and ask the King, then," Ser Meryn taunted, dragging her forward by the arm. Sansa dug her heels in, but it did little against the size and strength of her foe. "See what he has to say about this."

"Unhand me, Ser Meryn!" she cried out, just as they were passing Margaery's old chambers.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Sansa wilted with relief when she heard that voice, though her tired mind could not fathom why she was hearing Margaery's voice, in that moment. She glanced up, saw Margaery, standing in the hall just outside the door of her old chambers, blinking sleep from her eyes, dressed only in a green silk dressing gown with her hair falling in messy billows around her shoulders.

"Queen Margaery," Sansa said, glancing at Ser Loras behind her, at her other ladies, filing out into the hall. For a moment, Ser Meryn and his threats ceased to exist. "I...I thought that you had taken up residence in King Joffrey's chambers."

Margaery sent her a searching look. "I moved back, soon after the death of...Lady Reanna. Lady Sansa, what is going on here?"

Sansa swallowed. "I was...I was just..."

"She was attempting an escape," Ser Meryn snapped, shaking Sansa's arm where he gripped her wrist. "Little bitch thought to sneak out through the Maindenvault."

"I wasn't!" Sansa cried, turning pleading eyes on Margaery. "Your Grace, I swear. I wouldn't do that." Her voice broke on the last word, and perhaps that was what convinced Margaery, who faltered for a moment before turning to Ser Meryn.

"Release her," she ordered.

Ser Meryn glowered. "Your Grace-"

"I will vouch for the Lady Sansa," Margaery said, her voice cold as she stared at Ser Meryn in lieu of Sansa. "I, well...after what happened to Lady Reanna, I was frightened to utilize any of my ladies for my service. The Lady Sansa graciously offered to go into the city for me, though I insisted she take my brother Ser Loras with her." She shook her head. "I don't know why she thought to go on her own, but the matter is fixed now; my brother is here. Loras, you will accompany Lady Sansa into the city and back, and Ser Meryn may escort me back into my chambers."

Ser Meryn glared, but let go of Sansa's arm. She resisted the urge to rub at her wrist the moment it was released.

"Now, Ser Loras," Margaery told her brother, ushering him forward as Ser Meryn moved to stand hulking behind her.

Loras blinked at his sister, and then nodded, holding his arm out for Sansa. She looked at it for a long moment, glanced back at Margaery just long enough to see her encouraging nod, and then took it.

They walked out of the Keep together, and Sansa felt tears stinging at the back of her eyes, and tried to pretend that this was the triumphant escape she had wanted so desperately, even though she knew it was not.

Ser Loras led her down into the city, which was just beginning to wake itself in the early light of the morning, the first sounds of life emanating from it as Sansa and Loras stepped into the main square in silence.

The ships in the harbor were just beginning to leave, the ones that were not staying, that were going to anywhere but this godsforsaken place.

"Margaery has returned to the Maidenvault?" Sansa asked, after searching frantically for something to say, something that would not make her look so guilty, would not make Loras continue to give her that pitying look.

Ser Loras clutched his hands behind his back. "She has, in fact."

Sansa swallowed. "I thought it brought too much pain to her. She is...better now, I hope?"

Loras glanced at her. "My sister has always kept her true emotions very close to her heart," he said, a bit of the frustration Sansa had felt in that regard bleeding into his voice. "But the death of her lady, I think, has affected her deeply."

Sansa swallowed. "She has my sympathies. I did not know Lady Reanna well, but..."

"The move to King's Landing was difficult on her. On many of the ladies of Highgarden. It is...very different, here," Loras allowed. "Forgive me, Lady Sansa, but what were you really doing in the Maidenvault, if you did not know of my sister's return there?"

Sansa bit her lip. "As your lady sister said, merely an errand for her. She didn't...didn't want it known widely, so she asked me to help her with it."

Loras raised an eyebrow. "It seems to me then, that she would ask anyone else."

Sansa shrugged, glanced around at the crowd surrounding them, the throng of people pressed up on all sides of her. "You can pretend you lost me in the crowd," she told Loras quietly. "No one will know."

Loras gave her a small smile. "And do you think anyone will believe that?"

Sansa swallowed, voiced a thought she wasn't sure she should. But then, she'd been doing that a lot, lately. "Margaery is the Queen."

Loras' look went rather sharp, then. "I think we should return to the Keep, my lady. You have what Margaery sent you for, after all." He nodded to the parcel in her hands.

Sansa sighed. "Yes, I think you're right."

Her thoughts strayed to the vivid dream she'd had not hours before, though she doubted it would ever become a reality, now.

Chapter Text

"There's something I need to tell you," Sansa said, "and I am sorry I didn't tell you before."

Margaery blinked at her, folding her hands in her lap and giving Sansa her full attention.

They were sitting in Margaery's chambers again, the door shut behind Lady Elinor during her last refill of their tea. Chambers which Sansa reflected that it felt rather nice to return to, for they were far more private and...comforting than the gardens, and, even though they were alone now as they usually were there, she felt far safer here, about to tell Margaery something as private as this.

"What is it?" Margaery asked gently, so sweetly, and Sansa swallowed hard.

And then it all came spilling out, the time she had seen Cersei approach Reanna in the corridor, Reanna's strange behavior after that, the bruises she'd seen on Reanna's arm after Margaery's rapist had not succeeded.

"What I don't understand is," Sansa said quietly, sinking into the chair beside Margaery. "Why she would do that, kill Reanna when the girl was clearly working for her. Perhaps to cover up evidence as she left, but..." she thought of the way Reanna's body had been described. Her lord husband had not allowed her to see it, but Shae had seen it with her own eyes, still shuddered every time Sansa caught her thinking about it.

"She was not a spy for Cersei," Margaery said, staring calmly ahead as her hand fiddled with the napkin she was holding.

"But-"

"She was a spy for me," Margaery went on, as if Sansa had not spoken, and then turned, meeting Sansa's eyes. "She was to put herself out there, gain Cersei's attention as an ally against me, and then report to me Cersei's plans concerning me."

Sansa stared at her for a long moment, feeling the first vestiges of horror since she had seen Margaery standing whole and hale beside Joffrey return to her. "She...what?"

Margaery's expression softened. "Sansa..."

"How could you ask her to do something like that?" Sansa demanded, horror filling her.

"Sansa, Lady Reanna volunteered for the chance," Margaery told her gently, still clasping her hands, but Sansa found herself unwilling to pull away, much as she knew that perhaps she should. "She knew that, if she did not, Cersei would find someone else, someone who would not feed her lies, but the truth."

"And now she's dead," Sansa breathed in horror, finding the sudden strength to pull away from Margaery, then.

"Yes," Margaery agreed. "And I am quite saddened at the death of a most beloved friend and confidante," she went on. "I...I did not think that Cersei would stoop to such a thing."

Sansa felt sympathy welling up within her, despite herself. "What will you do?"

Margaery's eyes hardened. "I will bury my friend, and then I will see that she has justice, Sansa. It is all that any of us can do for those that we love, is it not?"

"But...justice against Cersei," Sansa said quietly. "How?"

It was something that she longed for as well, but had never, to her mind, been more than a dream, nor one capable of coming true.

"I don't know," Margaery whispered, voice hoarse. "I don't know."

"Oh, Margaery," Sansa reached for her, but Margaery flinched away, like one of Tommen's frightened kittens whenever Joffrey came near.

Like Sansa, whenever Joffrey came near, and she swallowed hard, lowering her hand.

"I'm not sad," Margaery said quietly. "Or broken, or teary, or anything else you may be thinking. I'm..." she glanced down at her shaking hand, clenched it into a fist. "I'm angry. I'm so angry, all the time, now."

Sansa swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want to hear that," Margaery told her honestly. "I thought about having him interrogated, tortured," she admitted airily. "Getting him to admit why he did what he did, to admit that she..." she cleared her throat. "But he would never have betrayed Cersei Lannister. And if he had, she would have killed him first. I...didn't deserve to see her kill him, to see her win, again. And...he may have been horrible, may have gladly been Cersei's puppet, for all I know, but...he was still only a puppet. It was Cersei who...She should pay for what happened, and she never will, not that way."

And then, much to Sansa's horror, Margaery began to cry.

Sansa had never thought she would see Margaery cry. Had, on multiple occasions, found herself wondering if Margaery was even capable of it, a question which had disturbed her greatly. The other girl was far too composed, too perfect to let herself be free with her emotions for even a moment.

And yet, here she was.

Crying, in front of Sansa.

And Sansa did the only thing she could think to do, the thing she had been wanting to have happen to her since she arrived in King's Landing. She now understood how Tyrion could turn down her request and then embrace as she cried in the same moment.

She reached out, and pulled Margaery into an embrace that the other girl fought for a moment, before she relaxed into it, deep, silent, shaking sobs rattling against Sansa, her eyes squeezed shut against Sansa's shoulder.

"It's all right," Sansa whispered, awkwardly rubbing her back. "It's all right. It's over now. It's over now."

She couldn't remember, in that moment, the last time she had comforted someone, not Arya, who had never sought it, maybe Bran or Rickon, once or twice, Jeyne, before Petyr Baelish took her away forever, but no one after that.

It felt almost...nice.

"I have you," she whispered, planting a kiss on the other girl's forehead, and Margaery sat up suddenly, sniffling hard and wiping at her eyes with one of her embroidered handkerchiefs.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, smiling at Sansa. "I..."

"You don't have to explain," Sansa said quietly, this weird role reversal as strange to her as it must be to Margaery, now. "Or apologize. Margaery...What happened to you was horrible, and wrong, and now with your friend...you have nothing to be sorry for."

Margaery stared at her for a long moment, eyes still filled with pools, before, hesitantly, she nodded.

"I just don't usually..." she swallowed awkwardly, couldn't seem to keep Sansa's gaze.

Sansa smiled gently, reaching out and squeezing her hand in response. "I know."

Margaery glanced up, smiled at her. "You're a good friend, Sansa Stark."

Chapter Text

Loras let out a loud groan as he emptied his load into Olyvar's mouth, bracing himself against the wall and hoping against hope that no one would come around the corner.

Or perhaps he wasn't, really.

"I can't do this again," Loras said, and Olyvar blinked up at him, releasing Loras' cock with an audible pop.

"Can't do what?"

"I..." Loras felt his erection wilt as he pushed Olyvar away, sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "We were fucking on the day my sister was nearly..."

Olyvar glanced up at him, panting, face red, and his lips twisted into that of sympathy. "You weren't to know."

"I was on duty. I was supposed to be guarding her, and instead, I was letting you suck me off in a room down the hall." He clenched, unclenched his fist.

Olyvar watched the movement. "You can't blame yourself for it," he comforted, and Loras glared at him.

"If I can't blame myself, who can I blame?" he demanded. "Who can she blame? It was my duty to guard her, and I failed her."

"Must you spend your whole life guarding your sister?" Olyvar asked softly, his blue eyes going rather wide with sorrow. "She is the Queen. She should have had more than one guard protecting her that day, and besides, she's fine-"

"You're right," Loras interrupted. "She is the Queen, and I am in the Kingsguard. It will be my pleasure and duty to guard her for the rest of my life."

Olyvar gave him a sad look, and then reached for his clothes where they lay in a heap on the floor.

"Loras..."

"Just go," Loras said quietly. "Please."

Olyvar sighed, and then began to redress, nodding to himself.

When he reached the door, he turned back to say one final thing.

"Even the Kingsguard are men who have to live sometime, Loras," Olyvar said quietly, before slipping out the door, letting it slide shut behind him.

Loras tore his fingers through his hair with a silent cry of frustration, and then slumped against the bed.

Chapter Text

The novelty of Lady Reanna's death had worn off somewhat with the knowledge that her killer had been found and punished. According to Maester Quyburn, Ser Osmund had murdered Lady Reanna before going to Margaery's chambers in his attempt to attack her that day, and no one had found the body until it started to smell.

Sansa knew nothing about bodies after death, beyond what she had seen on the city walls, but she knew that Maester Quyburn was Cersei's pet as much as Ser Osmund had ever been.

She did not understand why Margaery then endorsed him, saying that she had not seen Lady Reanna since that day when Sansa knew for a fact that she had, that they both had, during one of their dinners before Cersei's wedding. Margaery had not even seemed displeased with the girl.

But she remembered what Margaery had said, that Cersei would never face justice in the usual way, and wondered what she was plotting. She could not even bring herself to feel annoyed at the lie, for Ser Osmund certainly deservered to have his name maligned as much as Margaery saw fit.

Still, the whole thing smelled terribly treacherous to her. She knew that to survive, one must play the game, but she preferred the honesty she could get far better.

Not that she could say much better for herself, at the moment.

Sansa had been foolish to accept the offer, all of that time ago, though it felt like no time at all, now; she had no guarantee that he and House Martell were any better than the Lannisters, but for the look in his eyes when he spoke of his sister.

And Sansa had seen that same look in Jaime Lannister's eyes when he spoke of his.

She was not entirely unconvinced, after so much time had passed since she had struck such a bargain with Prince Oberyn, that it was not some sort of honeyed trap, to betray her to the King, considering the amount of time that Prince Oberyn had remained in King's Landing, and his apparent unconcern with leaving.

"What do you want of me?" Sansa demanded, turning on him abruptly, and Oberyn blinked at her, coming to a halt. "Once we reach Dorne, you must have some plans for me. Why is it that you're helping me? Do you...wish to marry me?"

It had been a constant worry, ever since her husband had brought up the thought of having children with her.

"Marry you?" he echoed. And then, "Ah. Because you are a Stark."

"The Last Stark," she corrected, quietly.

"Lady Sansa, I have no intention of dragging you off to Dorne to replace this prison with that one."

"Then why won't you tell me what you want from me?"

Oberyn swallowed, didn't meet her eyes. "Because I don't want anything from you, Sansa Stark. It was not actually my intention, when I came here, to seduce a little girl into running away with me, whatever you may have heard about me. You...Elia spent her last moments in King's Landing, because I was too late to save her and because those who should have protected her abandoned her." He swallowed audibly. "If you still wish to come with me when I leave this place, and can trust my intentions enough for that, you may do whatever you wish when we reach Dorne. I care not."

Sansa felt rather shamefaced, at those words. "Then why...I just...I want to understand, Prince Oberyn. Why haven't we left yet? What is it you're doing here?"

Oberyn gave her a long look. "You confessed to me once that you hate the Lannisters as much as I."

Sansa glanced around, eyes wide at his words, not even whispered. "Prince Oberyn!"

He looked amused at her scandalized expression, rather than surprised. "Do you think that anyone within the walls of King's Landing cares for the Lannisters beyond the Lannisters?" he asked, tone almost teasing. "Your secret is safe, Lady Sansa."

She stared at him. "I don't...What are you planning? Why won't you tell me, if my secret is safe with you?"

He smirked. "Ah. A bargain, then. Smart."

She nodded, biting her lip.

"You have spent some time around these players of the game," he said, and sounded far too appreciative. And then he leaned down, so that his lips pressed against her hair and whispered in her ear, "When we leave King's Landing, you will never have to do so again."

She stood up on tip toe, kissing Prince Oberyn on the cheek, but her heart was heavy.

Chapter Text

My dearest Willas,

I am deeply sorry for the trouble about to, if it has not already done so, throw itself upon your doorstep. Believe me, if there were any other way of alleviating certain pressures here in the capitol, I would have resorted to those first, but Grandmother was insistent that there were none.

And I would have liked to send you a different gift, for what I know is fast approaching as your Nameday. I was going to send you one of Joffrey's infamous hunting bitches, but I sent you this one instead. Please handle her with care. She requires constant attention and feeding, or she will bite.

Marg

~

My dear sister,

Not to worry, you know your dear brother is quite resilient. As for my new wife, she is quite content to shut herself away in her own chambers and not speak a word to anyone save the furniture she routinely destroys.

She is quite the fine houseguest in that respect. She has not even bothered Mother yet, though of course Leonnette is petrified of her anyhow, though of course you know that nothing and no one bothers Mother.

And...well, she does provide some amount of entertainment that has been lacking since your departure.

Willas

~

Willas, you are absolutely horrible.

Marg

~

My dear sister,

And here I thought I was being humorous. At any rate, Cersei is no more interested than I in consummating our new marriage, regardless of what Garlan or Tywin Lannister has to say about it, so I suppose that is one upside to our situation: we have made our first decision as husband and wife together, without a fight.

She spends most of her time in her chambers still, writing letters with what the servants report are the frenzy and anger of a madwoman, and composing them to Tywin Lannister. If he weren't made of stone, I might almost pity him.

Willas

~

Willas,

Don't underestimate her. She was angry at being sent off into exile, and she knew it was my fault that it happened when she left. That's why she... Never mind that. A nasty business, all around.

Your devoted (and worried) sister,

Marg

~

Marg,

You really needn't be worried. She seems to have no designs for me, and, even if she did, Garlan has taken...precautions. As I told you, she does nothing but hide herself away in her chambers each day, and never emerges, even for meals now. The servants deliver them, and take away her chamber pot. I suppose they know for certain whether or not the Lannisters really shit gold.

Willas

~

My stupid brother,

I don't think the most concerning factor of this whole ordeal is figuring out whether a joke about the Lannisters is true. (Although it was amusing to read, I suppose). Cersei is not the sort to sit away plotting if she can help it; whatever she is up to could be bad for all involved, including you. You must have the servants start reading her letters before she sends them out, just in case.

Marg

~

Marg,

The servants are scared shitless of her, although I have enlisted one of them to read her notes. She writes only to her father, the same letters over and over, about how angry she is with him for forcing her into another loveless marriage.

I almost feel sorry for her, but then, she killed one of grandmother's beloved birds the other day, just for sitting on her windowsill.

Willas

Chapter Text

The summons, when it came, did not entirely surprise Sansa. She had only been expecting it since the moment she had learned the truth about what Joffrey really was. Dreading it.

She had thought, for a few absurd moments, that now that she was Lord Tyrion's wife, Joffrey really would leave her alone, as Tyrion had promised he would. That, even if he could always torment her, he couldn't...

"The King demands your presence at once, m'lady," Ser Meryn repeated, and Sansa flinched, standing.

"Of course," she whispered, moving toward the door before Ser Meryn could reach out and grab her. She could remember all too well the feel of his hands beating her, on Joffrey's orders, and she knew that he would not need orders to do so again, whether she was Lord Tyrion's wife or not.

She glanced back into the empty room; Tyrion had gone to some meeting of the Small Council, though it was beyond Sansa why they had to meet at such a late hour of the night, and there was no one here to rescue her.

She should have learned long ago that there was never going to be anyone to rescue her, not from Joffrey, not from anyone.

She didn't know why the lesson took so long to sink in.

And then they rounded the hall, and their way to Joffrey's chambers, so close now that Sansa could feel herself beginning to sweat, was blocked by Ser Jaime Lannister.

She wilted, the small bead of hope she'd allowed herself to feel evaporating.

"Where are you taking the Lady Sansa?" Ser Jaime asked calmly, and Ser Meryn lifted his chin, grasping Sansa by her elbow and glaring back defiantly at the Kingslayer.

"King Joffrey demands her presence," he said levelly, and Sansa felt the Kingslayer's eyes turn to her, in that moment, searching for something he didn't seem to find.

"In the dead of night," he finally said, voice flat, dubious.

Ser Meryn practically growled out his answer, "Yes."

"And what does our King wish to see her for?" Ser Jaime asked, in a tone that Sansa thought implied he already knew.

Ser Meryn's lips curled into a sneer. "It is not the Kingsguard's place to question the orders of the King. Move aside, Lord Commander."

Jaime raised a brow, before turning toward Sansa. "Go back to my brother, Lady Sansa, and stay in your chambers until morning."

Ser Meryn opened his mouth to protest, but Ser Jaime levelled him with a look. "I will deal with the King in the morning. I am the Lord Commander, and I am giving you your orders. You're dismissed, Ser Meryn. Go find some servant girl to torment."

Ser Meryn ground his teeth together, glanced at Sansa once more, and then practically threw her at Ser Jaime, before stomping away.

"Cheerful sod, isn't he?" Ser Jaime muttered at his retreating back, and Sansa stared up at him with wide eyes. He sighed. "Are you all right, Lady Sansa?"

"Joffrey-"

"I will deal with him," he told her, a quiet determination in his voice that she found herself wanting to believe. "Go back to my brother's chambers." He hesitated. "I will walk you there. It likely isn't safe to be prowling about the castle at this time of night."

She wanted to say that she should go anyway, that Joffrey would only be angrier if she did not do everything he asked of her, but something about the look in Ser Jaime's eyes stopped her.

She didn't know what it was; she knew that she couldn't trust him, anymore than she could trust any Lannister, much as her lord husband liked to pretend that she could, and that he was a wicked man who had thrown her brother from a window, but Sansa found herself turning around and timidly following Ser Jaime back to Lord Tyrion's chambers.

They walked in silence, because Sansa could hardly imagine starting a conversation with Ser Jaime and he did not provide one, and by the time they had finally reached Lord Tyrion's chambers (her chambers), she felt terribly relieved to leave the stifling silence that was the Kingslayer's presence.

He stood there awkwardly for a long moment, and she could tell that there was something just on the tip of his tongue, so she waited.

But, when nothing was forthcoming, she stepped forward to open the door anyway.

"Lady Sansa," he did speak then, and Sansa paused, turning around and raising an eyebrow at him expectantly.

She had never imagined Ser Jaime to be a coward, not even when the reports came that he had shoved her brother out of a window. But, in that moment, watching him stare at her with something like wariness in her eyes, she wondered what could possibly be so terrifying about a little girl.

"Tell my brother to keep a better eye on you," he said finally, and then turned and marched away, hand on the pommel of his sword.

Sansa was left staring after him in bewilderment, before she stepped into her chambers and shut the door with a quiet click behind her.

Tyrion, where he lay on the sofa, apparently having returned from his meeting, did not even wake, not that she'd expected him to.

He often came back to their chambers from those meetings drunk, after all.

Sansa shivered, and wondered if he would have even noticed her absence, had Ser Meryn succeeded in his orders.

Chapter Text

Margaery knew that the Crown's need for her family's gold and wheat and soldiers would protect her from the most vulgar of her husband's...predilections, when they were wed.

She had also known that she would they would not protect her forever.

"Are you sure?" she asked Lady Rosamund, clutching the girl's hand.

The girl nodded, lowering her eyes. "Yes, my lady. Ser Jaime Lannister intercepted them before Ser Meryn could take the Lady Sansa to King Joffrey's chambers as he demanded, however."

Margaery's lips thinned. "And did the King say why he wanted her?"

Rosamund glanced sideways, not answering, not that Margaery needed an answer.

She knew that she was beautiful; her father believed it to be her greatest asset, and while she and her grandmother disagreed, it had turned many a head in Westeros.

But her physicality was not why Joffrey had found her beautiful, and, though she had managed to keep a hold on him so far, she knew now that she would have to try harder.

Her husband was the King, and believed he could have anything he wanted. He was also insane, which made him unpredictable.

Margaery could not afford to become the predictable, pretty queen of Joffrey Baratheon. And neither could Sansa.

She stood to her feet abruptly. "And where is the King, currently?"

Lady Rosamund's eyes widened. "Your Grace-"

"The King, Lady Rosamund," Margaery said, her patience thinning. "I am sure you must know where he is, after having spent the majority of your day fishing out gossip about him."

Lady Rosamund swallowed hard, and Margaery knew that it was out of concern for her more than anything, but still, it annoyed her.

"He repaired to his royal bedchambers for a moment, after telling his men to prepare for a hunt," she said finally, not meeting Margaery's eyes, swallowing again.

Margaery nodded. "Thank you, Lady Rosamund," she said coolly, and then swept imperiously from the room.

She stalked her way to Joffrey's chambers, glaring at the Kingsguard outside his door who told her the King had asked not to be disturbed until they wisely stepped aside, and then swept into their chambers.

She shivered, remembering the long nights she had spent here when she had refrained from staying in the Maidenvault.

"My queen," Joffrey glanced up and smirked, as she entered the room. "I was just about to go on a hunting trip. You've been doing so well with the targets lately, perhaps you'd like to come with us?"

"Have I...displeased you in the bedchambers in some way, my lord?" Margaery asked calmly, shortly, as she pulled the door shut behind her, ignoring his invitation altogether and affecting a look of sorrow.

Joffrey blinked up at her. "Huh?" he asked intelligently, and Margaery smiled, coming forward and sitting on the edge of the bed, near his feet, as he sat leaned against it.

She thought he might enjoy the symbolism.

"Only...one of my ladies overheard an order for you to bring Sansa Stark to your bedchambers just last night," she said quietly, running her fingers along the hem of his trousers. "You've worried me, my love."

Joffrey stared at her fingers apprehensively.

"I hope you do not punish her for eavesdropping, nor me for my worries over your...interest in another." She swallowed hard. "You are the King, of course, and entitled to anything you wish. Only, I hope that you might tell me, if there is something...more, that you want of me?" she glanced up at him through hooded eyes. "I would do anything for my king."

Joffrey swallowed hard. "It is...It is not something appropriate for a lady, nor for my queen, to subject herself to."

But it was something that he would like to see Sansa Stark subject herself to, his plaything even if he did not keep her chained to his bed.

Yet.

Margaery lifted a brow, deft fingers reaching out to cup her husband through his trousers. He let out a gasp, squirming for a moment, and then swallowed hard and when he glanced down at her, and she could see the madness reflected in his eyes.

Margaery smiled. "I would like very much to please my lord in all things," she said coolly, reaching out and grasping his chin under her deft fingers. "Just say the word."

Joffrey sucked in a breath. "I..."

Margaery reached to pull his trousers down around his knees, but Joffrey's hand reached out suddenly, stopped her. "It...it isn't that," he said, and looked almost embarrassed.

Margaery cocked her head. "Then what, my love?"

He swallowed. "I'd like...I want..." He spun away from her, and Margaery got to her feet, following him. When he spun back to her, he looked almost livid. "I called Lady Sansa because I wanted to hurt her! Because I wanted to watch Ser Meryn slap her pretty cheeks until they bled, and then rip off her dress and slap her virgin cunt until it bled, too, until she was crying on her knees and begging, and I could hit her with my crossbow until she was covered in the prettiest of bruises. Because I need..."

Margaery thought of how, just the other day, Sansa had held her so warmly, so gently, and nearly gagged. That strange, strong girl who had endured so much more than Margaery ever could have, and yet still found the kindness in her heart to give someone else comfort, merely because they were crying.

"Then do it to me."

Joffrey's head shot up. "What?"

She stepped forward, between his thighs, pressing up against his prick, which had hardened at his words. "Hurt me, Your Grace."

He let out a stuttering breath. "You are my queen. I could never..."

She smiled, "I don't mind. I think...If we did it right..." she moved closer, "I think it could be something we would both enjoy."

He swallowed. "Are you...are you sure?"

"Yes."

Joffrey rubbed his hands together, like an excited child. "I'll just call the guard-"

"No," Margaery interrupted, and he glanced at her. She forced herself to grin. "Do it to me yourself, my love. I want to...feel you marking me, with your own hands, or I don't think I could enjoy it." She reached out, taking his hands in her own. He stared down at their entwined fingers. "Please."

Chapter Text

It had been several days since Ser Jaime saved her from having to go to Joffrey’s bed, and Sansa was waiting for the inevitable backlash, the punishment for daring to disobey him.

It had not come, which only served to make her more anxious.

Instead, a dinner had been announced, apparently by Margaery herself, although everyone who was important in King’s Landing had been invited.

Sansa watched as the King and Queen entered the dining room, Margaery's hand placed delicately on Joffrey's, her eyes glinting with a light that seemed almost feverish, a light that reminded Sansa of the look she often saw in Joffrey's eyes, though it was not entirely the same.

Something about the look in Margaery's eyes disturbed her more than seeing her safe and whole by Joffrey's side for the first time after their wedding had done, and Sansa turned her attention back to her empty bowl of soup, wishing that it was full so that she might pretend to eat it, might swirl her spoon about in it and pretend distraction.

She stared down at the silver bowl until she thought she saw it filling with cool, pooling blood.

She did not look up until she heard her husband's sharp intake of breath, and then only with the sort of resignation that came with having heard many of those, at court, and knowing what they usually meant.

She did not immediately see what had caused this reaction; instead, she saw the way that Mace Tyrell's hand went to his mouth in horror, and her husband's face had twisted into something almost resembling pity, which quickly made her look away from him once more.

Ser Loras' hand was on the pommel of his sword, and, for a moment, Sansa thought that he looked as though he had every intention of using it, before his lady grandmother reached out, placing a hand over his and muttering just loudly enough for her to hear, "You fool, put that away before you start a bloody war."

Tywin Lannister, however unruffled, certainly looked annoyed.

Margaery was standing almost completely level with Sansa then, arm still on Joffrey's. Sansa did not see what it was about her that so shocked the others watching, save perhaps for her dress.

She wore a gown of palest gold, clinging tight to her lithe body like a lover, with little beads of red woven into the low collar and the waistline, in lieu of a belt, and resembling, Sansa thought, beads of blood. She wondered how Margaery could stand to wear such a thing.

And then she passed by Sansa, limping a little, unnoticeable almost until that point, and Sansa saw the smooth expanse of her naked back, the dress revealing skin from her neck to the small of her back, where the material suddenly reappeared. And the angry red marks, lines of blood since dried and cleaned, that stretched from the top of her shoulderblades to where they disappeared beneath her gown, not as far as some of the scars that Sansa still wore, but far enough to be easily seen.

Blue bruises sprang out along the back of Margaery's neck, and Sansa could easily imagine the fingers that had wrapped around smooth skin and squeezed, as they did now where they held Margaery's hand.

The marks on her neck would fade. The marks on her back would scar, Sansa knew.

Sansa's eyes found themselves traveling to Widow's Wail, strapped at Joffrey's waist, and the taste of metallic blood in her bowl had suddenly filled her mouth.

The King and Queen appeared not to realize the reaction their entrance had caused, and they made their way to their seats in their usual moods, Margaery turning as her husband held out her chair for her, so that her back was on full display for all.

Sansa wondered if Joffrey had forced her to wear that gown, that all might see what he had done for her, but surely, that would be foolish of him. The Tyrells would want revenge for such a blatant cruelty to their beloved rose.

Unlike Sansa, Margaery had those who would kill for her, Sansa knew.

"Some wine," Joffrey called out, and one of the servants rushed forward to pour it for him. He raised a hand, and the man paused. Sansa thought he might be shaking too badly to pour it, but then Joffrey gestured to Margaery's cup. "For my queen."

Margaery's smile was so bright that Sansa did not know how she could have managed it, with such a deep gash on her back.

Sansa would not have been able to. She was certain that her forced smiles, after Joffrey beat her and bade her thank him for it, were always full of pain.

Margaery's smile was just as full of radiance as ever, and she leaned forward, ignoring the servant to kiss her husband's cheek.

Sansa had never seen Joffrey initiate any sort of intimate physical touch between the two of them, even before they were married, at least not in public.

And so it was doubly strange, to watch as he kissed the scar on Margaery's shoulder, as though it tasted of the sweetest fruit.

She swallowed down blood, and wondered absently when she had bitten her tongue.

Lord Tywin cleared his throat, clearly annoyed with the couple for their tardiness and now for their...display, and Joffrey, not before giving one last kiss to his wife, turned and said, "A toast! To my queen! Let us eat."

Margaery swallowed her wine, and Sansa winced when she saw the mottled blue bruises encircling Margaery's neck, so deep they almost looked like the sapphires of a necklace.

Tyrion muttered under his breath, "It's a wonderful she doesn't try to kill him in his sleep," and Sansa could not help but find herself agreeing with him.

She didn't understand why Margaery hadn't at least tried, yet. She had to see, by now, that being queen was hardly worth all of this.

When the servant leaned forward to refill Margaery's glass again, he tripped as Joffrey jostled the table, and spilled the stuff over the front of Margaery's beautiful, horrid gown.

Margaery let out a noise of surprise, rearing back, but not, Sansa noticed, letting go of her wine glass, as the onlookers went silent.

And then, Joffrey flew into a rage.

There was something about watching one of Joffrey's rages. One should have felt as though they were watching a horrible child throw a temper tantrum, as indeed they were, but there was something more to it than that, being there in person and watching it happen with Joffrey.

He was the King.

"You stupid fool! How dare you ruin my lady's gown!" he screeched at the servant, a vein on his temple throbbing. "I should have you flogged for your insolence!"

The servant began to stammer out some sort of apology, and Margaery rolled her eyes.

Sansa stared.

"Honestly, Joffrey, it means nothing. He can help my ladies wash it out, if you wish. I'm rather...starved." She gestured toward her thus far uneaten plate.

Joffrey spun on her. "It was a beautiful gown, and he must be punished for that, not made to fondle it while he pretends my wife the queen wears it."

Margaery bit her lip; some might have thought her nervous, but to Sansa, and, perhaps, to Joffrey, she almost looked as if she were hiding a smile. "Very well."

Joffrey grinned, gestured to Ser Meryn. "Flog him in the courtyard! I want his back in ribbons when my lady and I are done with our meal, so that she can see it." He grinned at Margaery as he said these words, and she grinned back.

Ser Meryn dragged the stammering, pleading servant from the room as Tywin Lannister rolled his eyes in sync with Olenna Tyrell.

Joffrey kissed Margaery again, full on the lips, harsh and unyielding, and, when they both pulled away, they were panting, and Margaery's lips glistened with little droplets of blood in the light.

Sansa had worn her scars from Joffrey with shame since the very first day they had been given to her.

Margaery wore them with pride.

Chapter Text

He gripped her arm, twisting it sideways until a very visible bruise appeared. "I'm going to kill him."

Margaery jerked her arm free, flinching in a way that reminded her brother all too well of what Joffrey must have done to her. "You won't."

Loras stared at her incredulously. "Margaery. You can't be serious."

She sighed, turned slightly away from him, and Loras flinched at the sight of her naked back, of the scars there. Scars that her little bastard of a husband had inflicted.

They were in her rooms now, rooms he was happy that she had returned to, for the privacy it now allotted them, but worried that she had returned to all too quickly in her desire to be away from Joffrey. He still saw the way she flinched at the sight of the bed, when she thought no one was looking.

"I am the Queen. You will not kill my husband and deprive me of that. I will never forgive you if you do," Margaery said, in a dull, toneless voice that sent shivers up his spine.

Loras reached out, grabbed her arm again and spun her back to face him. He winced when he saw the look in her eyes, the fear quickly tempered by annoyance, softened his grip on her.

He told himself that the look in her eyes was not half crazed.

"And I will never forgive myself if I don't. You told me that if he ever...that if things ever got out of control, that there were...contingencies," he accused, raising a brow, for he had yet to see such contingencies.

Margaery pulled away a second time, rubbed at her wrist and gave him a cool smile. "Things are not out of control."

Loras glanced pointedly down at her scars, and Margaery sighed.

"I'm handling it. The whole thing was...my suggestion." She couldn't meet his eyes as she said those words, and he couldn't decide if he could believe them, even as shock rolled through him.

"Your...your suggestion?" Loras repeated dumbly.

Margaery lifted her chin, staring levelly back at him. "Yes. My suggestion. And it saved my reputation, saved our family. You're welcome. Someone had to."

Loras flinched back at the raw anger in her voice, the accusation that she wouldn't say hiding just under the surface.

He both wanted to hear her say it and didn't.

"Margaery, I...I saw you, after that blackguard Ser Osmund..." he shook his head, swallowed hard. He knew he had to be careful with how he worded what he was about to say.

Margaery was a year younger than him, but sometimes, it seemed that she was decades older. She always knew what to say when he needed it, always knew how best to help him. She had been there for him, for as long as he could remember, always the steadying force behind him.

Loras had never understood how to be there for her because of it. Because Margaery was always put together, always knew what she wanted and how to achieve it, always hid her emotions so deeply that sometimes he wondered if she had any.

And, as close as they had always been, he hadn't truly known until he saw the way her hands shook after that bastard dared to touch her.

"I know that you weren't...unaffected by what happened, much as you would like to pretend otherwise."

Margaery turned away, but not before he saw the way her lips tightened, her fingers dug into the fabric of her gown.

"This has nothing to do with that," she spat at the far wall, and Loras sighed, reached out to touch her before lowering his hand.

"I think it does," he said quietly, to her back, pretending he didn't notice the way it stiffened. "I think...I went to see Olyvar again, after what happened to you. And then I told him that I couldn't see him again and it's been killing me ever since, not to."

She turned back, stared at him incredulously. "What comfort is that supposed to bring me? That I am bringing you pain?"

Loras flinched at the raw anger in her eyes. "None. But...I think I understand, Margy. I went back to him even as I hated myself for it, because I crave it now, because you won't tell me that I failed you."

She blinked. "Do you want me to tell you that? Is that what you're waiting for? Me to say that because you weren't doing your duty Cersei's toy was able to come into my chambers and hold me down and-"

"Stop it," Loras pleaded, holding his hands up as if to cover his ears. "Stop, please."

Margaery stared at him pityingly. "Why do you think I said nothing, Loras? Is it easier, to hear that?" She stepped forward, took his hands in hers. They weren't shaking, now. "I don't blame you, Loras. I don't...I don't blame him, either."

Loras swallowed. "Do you blame yourself?" he asked, and Margaery slapped him. And then she sank onto the divan, hiding her face in her hands and ignoring him completely.

Loras stood beside her, a little helpless, unsure if he should speak or should turn and leave her be. Unsure what she wanted from him.

In the end, he turned and slammed the door behind him, because, damn the Seven, he knew why she wanted it. The punishment, even if it wasn't her fault. Even if he knew he would never be able to convince that she had no reason to want it. Understood it all too well.

He'd been pining for it for weeks.

Weeks of pent up frustration, with his decision toward celibacy, with Margaery, were working against him, and Loras found himself stalking down to Littlefinger's establishment once more, imagining fucking Olyvar into his bed, watching him gasp and cry out his name while Loras forbade him from coming.

He found Olyvar in the bed of another man.

If it had been Prince Oberyn, as Olyvar had hinted at some time ago, it would have been all right; the two of them had rather fantasized about that, themselves, and Loras would not begrudge him that.

But it was some smallfolk with coin, and Loras growled when he saw the man inside Olyvar, when he threw open the doors to Olyvar's usual room despite the whore at the front's demands that he wait for her.

Olyvar glanced up, face contorted in the throes of passion, and that frustration turned to anger.

The man with Olyvar gulped, pulling out and reaching for his trousers; he had recognized Loras' white cloak, clearly, if not him, and quickly made himself scarce.

Loras was quick enough to take his place, before Olyvar could get up and talk to him.

"This is a...a pleasant surprise," Olyvar gasped out, arching his back as Loras bit at the appex of his neck and shoulder.

"Bend over the desk," Loras ordered him, when he could speak again, pulling him up from the cushions. "I want to fuck you on it."

He had never seen Olyvar move so quickly in his life.

Chapter Text

"Get out, all of you," Olenna said then. "I wish to speak with my beloved granddaughter and queen alone. You lot are wasting the fresh air, at any rate."

Margaery smiled softly at her mother's words while her cousins all fled the garden veranda as quickly as possible, slipping into the seat one of her cousins vacated with all of the grace of the queen she now was.

She hadn't had a normal conversation with her grandmother in some time, however, and she had a burning suspicion that she knew what this one was going to be about. Margaery was not relishing the thought of that conversation, not given the way that Loras had reacted, when she had attempted to explain herself to him.

"I assume that marriage to King Joffrey is everything you thought it would be," her grandmother said calmly, when they were once more alone, and Margaery glanced up, could see the half-formed question in her grandmother's eyes.

"I went in with no true expectations," the granddaughter said, "only half-formed understandings from what we had heard already. It is...different, but not wholly so."

Her grandmother's eyes narrowed. "And? Details, you foolish girl."

Margaery knew that her grandmother resorted to such insults only when she truly was annoyed by her companions, or feeling defensive, and she knew it was not the former. Much as she adored her grandmother for the worry she could hear in the old woman's voice, she could not afford to reveal herself in such a way, and Margaery found herself rather envying her grandmother for the first time since she was a little girl and had realized that her grandmother was everything she hoped to one day be.

And she also knew that she had provided more than enough details on her marriage to her grandmother before this moment, and yet she could not bring herself to go into more specifics now. Some part of her was...horribly ashamed, by what she had allowed Joffrey to do to her, and even if the proof of his treatment of her was visible before her grandmother's all too keen eyes now, Margaery was strangely reluctant to speak of it.

Margaery swallowed. "Everything that Lady Sansa said was true, grandmother."

Her grandmother sighed, but did not look surprised. Certainly not after what she had seen, just the day before. "And has he hurt you? Your brother Loras seems quite ready to become another Kingslayer, if necessary, and I am afraid that an old woman and an old fool will not be able to stop him."

Margaery snorted, wondered how she had become the only one capable of restraining her brother, when they had so clearly and quickly drifted apart in recent years. "Of course not."

Her grandmother lifted a brow at that, and Margaery shrugged. "He...My husband recognizes a kindred spirit in me," she said quietly. "He won't lay a hand on me the way he did her. Not in any true spite."

"The marks on your back might say differently," her grandmother said then, and there was a certain sadness in her eyes that made Margaery look up. As if she thought Margaery was such a little fool that she did not notice them herself.

"The King did not hurt me," she repeated, stubborn to a fault, wishing that her grandmother would understand. "Why is it that, when an event happens, it must always be that a man has instigated it?"

There were very few times in her life that Margaery had ever witnessed her grandmother's surprise at anything.

She knew that, before she had been born, her grandmother had been far from doting to her siblings, or to any of the Tyrell and Redwyne children. Oh, she loved her family, and would do anything for them where she could, but that special warmness in the old crone's heart that might be attributed to any other matriarch was solely for Margaery, and this because her grandmother had sensed a kindred spirit in her, long before Margaery had realized it herself.

Margaery had always loved her grandmother more dearly than most, and respected her opinion in everything. It had been her grandmother who had taught her the game of thrones, though, to be fair, Margaery had taught much of the skills needed to play it to herself.

Some of those skills surprised her grandmother still.

A little pain was worth nothing, in the long run. Ambition was worth nothing, if one could not stomach the pain it took to crawl to the top and hold one's position, there.

And physical pain meant very little to Margaery in lieu of that.

Besides, it had not even been so bad; she had merely pretended that it was for someone else that she did it, another's face looking on, rather than Joffrey's.

For some reason, her mind's eye always supplied Sansa Stark's, though she supposed that was fitting, in some respects.

"It is a dangerous game that you're playing," Olenna said calmly, once she had appeared to regain herself, but the way she clenched and unclenched her hands into fists said differently; she was worried, and a part of Margaery was fiercely relieved that at least someone else was worried about her. "Which is more important, the love of the people or the love of the King?"

She sounded like a tutor, waiting for Margaery to recite the answer to a question that had been drilled into her for months before Olenna had allowed Mace to hand her over to Renly Baratheon.

Margaery shrugged. "Why not both?"

Olenna chuckled; it was a dry sound, and not particularly humored. "I very much doubt that even you could manage both, my dear, no matter how hard you tried." She paused for a moment, cocked her head. "Perhaps if your king was sane."

Margaery lifted her chin. "The people already love me. They understand that I care for them, and do my best to give them food and warmth, more so than Cersei ever did. But I could survive without their love, as she did. It would not be ideal, but I could do it."

"You cannot survive without the King's," Olenna surmised, her voice filled with some sadness Margaery didn't understand.

She knew that her grandmother had been somewhat against the match, in the beginning. That she had spoken against it to Margaery's father, as she had with the match to Renly, though in the end, her father's lust for more power and her own desire to be queen had won out. The first time, it had been Loras' voice, whispering in their father's ear.

Margaery did not regret being the child to whisper in Mace Tyrell's ear of her need to be queen, of their family's need for this alliance, any more than she had before Joffrey had given her these bruises.

"Yes," Margaery whispered, her voice soft.

Her grandmother studied her for a moment longer, before reaching out and placing her hand over Margaery's, bringing it to her chest and squeezing it. "My brave, beautiful girl."

Margaery gave her a watery smile, and Olenna coughed, turning away and lifting her handkerchief to compose herself. She liked showing weakness as little as Margaery, and Margaery could not begrudge her that.

While she waited, she took another sip of her tea.

"I am returning to Highgarden soon," Olenna said calmly, and, at Margaery's startled look, she explained, "I grow tired of the climate here."

"Grandmother-"

"I have no doubt that you will manage without me," Olenna went on, "And I am needed there."

Margaery did not share the same assurances, though she knew the truth of the second part of that statement.

The thought of Cersei, alone with her brother, with only their mother and Garlan to protect him made her sick. Yes, she understood all too well Olenna's wish to return to Highgarden, but she couldn't help wondering if it would do any good.

She still received letters from Willas, often enough, detailing how Cersei had finally started coming out of her rooms, though she had stabbed the first servant to ask her whether or not she and her husband would consummate the marriage any time soon.

On that, at least, Margaery and Cersei were agreed. The marriage could not be consummated; Willas would never survive the experience, and Margaery still had another bride in mind for her dear brother, one who would be less horrid, at the very least.

At her granddaughter's skeptical look, Olenna said, "You are a queen, my dear, but do not forget that you are still a Rose." Olenna placed a hand over hers. "And more than one king has lost his head over a woman with thorns. You will never be safe so long as your husband lives."

Margaery swallowed, nodded. "I never thought I would be, Grandmother. Safe travels."

Chapter Text

She had known that there would be one more person concerned over what had happened to her, that she would have to speak with about it.

She had not thought that Sansa would be so outraged on her behalf, as her grandmother and Loras had been. It was...sweet.

"You told me that he didn't hurt you," Sansa said when she entered the rose gardens and found Margaery plucking flowers, something within her seeming to want badly to catch Margaery off guard, however, when the woman eventually turned around, it was with a dazzling smile, as though she had been waiting for the other girl and was not at all surprised to see her.

"Sansa," she said, and showed her teeth, putting a bundle of flowers under her arm, their thorns fallen in a little pile on the ground.

Sansa was frowning at her, undeterred by the smile as she nodded over Margaery's shoulder, to the marks everyone pretended not to see otherwise. "Has he been doing that since the beginning?"

The corners of Margaery's lips dipped at the inference that she had been lying to Sansa. "I told you that he was not, didn't I?"

Sansa flushed. "You...did, but, now after seeing that...Oh Margaery, I do not know how you can bear being wedded to him so easily."

"Hush, my love," Margaery said, glancing over her shoulder to be sure that they were indeed alone. "You forget yourself."

Sansa's face fell. "Only...I understand, Margaery, what being...the object of his attentions means. If you ever need to speak of it..."

Margaery thought that Sansa Stark could never quite understand that, not as Margaery did. Nor would she understand, if Margaery attempted to explain it to her.

Instead, she linked her arm through the other girl's, giving her a wistful smile. "Did he hurt you in such ways, then?"

Sansa swallowed. "He...he would have the Kingsguard hit me, sometimes, but he was never man enough to do it himself. He much preferred to taunt me, instead."

Margaery tilted up Sansa's chin. "I hope you didn't take his words to heart, Sansa." A narrow look. "Any of them."

Sansa shrugged. "He told me...Before the Battle of Blackwater," Sansa hesitated. "He told me that he would bring his sword back with the blood of Stannis Baratheon on it, and he would make me kiss it." Margaery flinched in sympathy. "But...he didn't." Sansa's pretty features twisted into a sneer. "He fled the battle, like a coward. I'm glad he did; I was terrified that he would make me kiss it, and then cut off my head with it, as he did my father's." She took in a shuddering breath. "It terrified me."

Margaery reached out, pulling her into a hug as Sansa had done for her days earlier. "Oh, Sansa," she murmured, brushing at the girl's hair. Sansa leaned into the touch for a moment only, before pulling away.

"He's horrible. I don't know how you stand him, all the time. Married to him." She shuddered.

"Sansa," Margaery said then, very seriously, "I should like to invite you to come with me on my next trip to give food and help to the smallfolk."

Sansa blinked at her, brows furrowing in confusion at the sudden change in topic, and Margaery elaborated, "My lady mother instilled in me a heart for those less fortunate than ourselves when I was quite young. At the time, I did not quite understand what advantage this had for us, but it always made me happy, to know that I could so help others, that my mere presence, and, I suppose, my food, could mean so much to another person. That they, in turn, could live on happily." She paused, giving Sansa a long look. "My lady mother is not a shrewd woman; she is quite silly at politics."

Sansa laughed hesitantly, because she thought Margaery wanted her to, and not because she quite understood what the other woman was saying.

Margaery did not seem to mind. "She told me, eventually, that she went to such efforts to help others because it could remind her that the poor are always among us, and are always less fortunate than us."

Sansa blinked. "All right," she said finally, still sounding rather unsure. "I'll come with you."

Margaery smiled. "Good. I'm glad."

Don't pity me, she thought to herself, couldn't bring herself to say the words aloud. Pity someone who deserves it, when I would do this again in a heartbeat.

Chapter Text

Margaery knew that, while Joffrey had never thought to extend a kindness to the common people because kindness did not come naturally for him, Sansa had not done so because the idea of helping the lowly smallfolk had never been taught to her, not when she herself was so in need of help and they were so different from she.

But she thought that it would help the other girl, all the same, and Sansa, as uncomfortable as she appeared at first, sticking close to Margaery's side as her ladies held out baskets for Margaery and Sansa to hand out to the smallfolk, seemed to thrive as the day went on.

She was too kind.

Margaery was still trying to figure out how she had survived, thus far.

She found herself, day by day, growing closer and closer to Sansa, a fact which worried her, for this game was a long one, and none were guaranteed to survive it, especially those with the kind heart of the Starks.

And still.

Sansa glanced up at her from where she was knelt on the ground, handing a little boy a sewn coat, and grinned, and Margaery grinned back, as if she couldn't quite control her own smile now, in Sansa's presence.

When Sansa straightened, they continued on, all to shouts of, "Long live her gracious and gentle Majesty, the Queen! Long live the Queen!"

It seemed that the smallfolk had not learned of the evils that she had done, that she had ordered the serving boy killed, after his flogging, to save him from any worse fate, of her other wicked acts since becoming Queen, and for that she felt a guilty gladness.

But perhaps they simply had overlooked it, in lieu of other information.

It seemed that they all knew of the mark branding her back, even without seeing the all of it, as the court had on the day after it had been formed. They saw only a small part of it, and yet the sympathetic looks that they sent her, the loving pity, told her all she needed to know.

"This," she told Sansa, linking her arm through the other girl's as Sansa handed away a rose to one of the children swarming them, "Is what it means to be loved, Sansa Stark."

Sansa was laughing happily, having forgotten her scarring, it seemed, and Margaery found herself quite happy to see that laughter. Found herself wanting to see more of it, regardless of the cost.

"A dress, for Your Grace!" one of the merchants attempting to become the legend of their street in selling wares to the Queen herself called out, and Margaery spun toward them, smiling and letting go of Sansa's arm.

"A gown?" she asked, and the little woman nodded, rubbing her hands together excitedly at having caught the Queen's attention.

"My finest cloths, Your Grace, silk from the Free Cities, and beyond," the little woman told her. "I can have a fine gown made for Your Grace and sent up to the Keep."

Margaery smiled widely, giving her several coins whose amount made the woman's eyes widen. "Very fine, Your Grace, very fine. Have you a color preference?"

Margaery glanced over the silks, and then at Sansa. "Why don't you pick?"

Sansa flushed, and then stepped forward, timidly choosing the cream colored cloth farthest from her.

"I'll have the rest of your payment given to whoever delivers the gown," Margaery promised the little woman, whose eyes widened.

"Not necessary, Your Grace, not necessary."

"I insist," Margaery told her, before spinning away, Sansa looking caught up in the rush behind her. No matter; she would catch up.

"We should return to the Keep, my lady," one of her ladies told her quietly, "For lunch."

Margaery grinned toward the kiosks set up in the streets. "Nonsense," she chided. "We have all that we might need right here. Elinor, use these," she handed over a few gold coins with Joffrey's seal, "Buy us some bread and fish."

Elinor curtseyed and hurried away, to her credit without even a flinch, and Margaery moved toward one of the kiosks selling wine.

"Some of your best vintage, good sir," she told the toothless little man behind the kiosk, giving him a bright smile. "For my ladies and I."

The man's eyes widened. "Of course, Your Grace, of course! The finest!" he reached under the table, pulling out a flask that looked very old indeed. "For Your Grace."

"Wait."

Loras stepped forward then, out of the retinue of Kingsguards following them whom Margaery had tried valiantly to pretend did not exist thus far, a pinched expression on his face. He had been upset ever since their talk after Joffrey's latest banquet, had barely spoken three words to her.

She sighed. "Loras-"

"Someone must test anything the Queen eats or drinks, Your Grace," he told her formally, and then bent forward to do just that. She almost reached out to stop him, but the iron look he gave her while he did so had her hesitating.

As she waited for her overbearing brother to pay his penance to her, she glanced around, saw that, amongst the crowd of adoring nobles watching them, were several men in black robes, strange, red circles carved into their foreheads.

She blinked, and they were gone, and Margaery shook her head, but did not forget the sight. Did not dare to.

A moment later, he pulled the flask from his lips, waited a moment, and then nodded to the wine merchant. "The Queen will take this one."

The man nodded, a little less pleased now, but no less excited. "Of course, of course."

They made their lunch by the sea, watching the ships roll in, and though the fare was not so good as what they might have eaten in the Keep, Margaery was glad enough for the excuse to stay away longer.

She thought that Sansa was, too, until she saw the pensive look on the other girl's face. At least she was no longer watching the ships with such longing.

"Sansa?" she asked.

"Cersei never bothered with such things," Sansa said quietly. "The smallfolk were always beneath her."

"No," Margaery said, brushing at the top of her own sleeve. "I imagine the world would be a far different place, if she had. A better one, perhaps."

Sansa gave her a hesitant smile. "I cannot imagine anything Cersei could do as good," she said finally, and it startled a laugh out of Margaery.

"No, I don't suppose I could, either," she said, giving Sansa a little wink. "Perhaps we ought to return to the Keep, then?"

Sansa shrugged. "Perhaps we could stay...a little longer?"

Margaery's grin widened. "Of course."

Chapter Text

"Oh, oh," Margaery gasped, pretending an orgasm because it would disguise her gasps of pain as Joffrey twisted Widow's Wail across her naked skin.

When it was over, Joffrey wiped the blood on their sheets and Margaery held back a grimace, knowing it would have to be cleaned.

And then he moved to sit beside her on the bed, his eyes a little less blown than they had been the last time they had done this, his breaths a little calmer.

Joffrey had been...distant, since he began hurting her, even if she knew she saw the spark of enjoyment in his eyes every time he lifted his hand against her.

Margaery could not have that.

But she thought she knew what was causing that distance, and the thought both excited and disturbed her.

She had lost her husband in her attempt to keep him. Had opened herself up as vulnerable when that was the one thing he could hate about her.

She knew she had, from the leering glances he threw in Sansa's direction with far more frequency now, to the way he'd been acting around her since her rape. She knew that the words he had spoken to her on the night of his mother's wedding would never have passed his lips were he sober, but he felt them nonetheless, buried deep somehow.

She had genuinely thought that the...hurting would help. She had even enjoyed some of it enough to be convincing, and she was rather startled when he'd stopped.

There were times when she didn't understand Joffrey Baratheon at all. She had thought she understood well enough that he had no care for others' pain, except to revel in it, and how wrong she'd been.

He wouldn't hurt her anymore, because he didn't like to see his lady wife in pain, but he fantasized about hurting Sansa Stark.

Sudden inspiration hit Margaery then, an inspiration born of desperation, and she smiled widely at her husband, who looked at her like a frightened animal in the face of it.

"Could you tell me about the Battle of Blackwater, Your Grace?" she linked her arm through his, pulling him closer to her on the bed, laying her head on his shoulder because she had found, much to her tempered disgust, that she almost always had to initiate contact between them, if she needed it.

He blinked at her, burrowing down into the bed like an animal nesting. "The Battle of Blackwater?"

She nodded eagerly, pretended she had not the stories well enough from her brothers. "Only, I should like to know what they are like, if it is not too terrible to bear thinking of. As a woman, I cannot partake in one myself. My brother Loras has told me often of tourneys, but he does not speak of true battle."

Joffrey shrugged, running his fingers along Margaery's hair. She gritted her teeth, wondered if he would pull at her hair as he had the other night, pull until she screamed. He didn't.

"It was a battle," he said flippantly. "I fought on the frontlines, beside the knights, like my father would have done. Killed a few of them myself, though my lord uncle was concerned that I should die for the effort."

"You must have been so very brave," Margaery consoled, and he shot her a glance that was somewhere between wariness and pleasure, as if he did not quite know what she was up to with this line of questioning, before grunting in acknowledgement.

"The Lady Sansa told me that the women and children were locked away in the Red Keep, to be hidden from Stannis' army," Margaery forged on. "I do not think I could have bore the thought of remaining locked away during a battle, even if I knew that all would be well." She gave an elegant shrug. "I have never been very good at patience. I would have wanted to be out there with you, to know that you were well and...to watch you."

Joffrey lifted a brow at that, glancing at her in new appreciation. "The Targaryens of old used to allow their women onto the battlefield. Some of them even rode dragons."

Margaery's lips twitched, for she did not want to steer the conversation back in that direction. She'd had quite enough of dragon butchering and Targaryen massacres for today. "Would you allow me to go into a battle with you one day, my lord? To watch me kill someone more than an animal in the heat and the blood beside you, and have me watch you in turn?"

Joffrey nodded, looking breathless as he stared at her, and she knew then, without any of her previous doubts, that she had him still.

And that made the pain worth it.

Still, the next time he touched her, moments later, it was not to bring her pain. He stared at her bruises as they made love, and Margaery doubted that he had ever looked upon another's injuries and felt anything resembling what he did as he now looked at Margaery's, and when he came inside of her, he wasn't looking at her bruises at all, but rather at the painting on the wall behind them.

She supposed that was a small mercy, even if she could not fathom what it would mean for their future.

As they lay in the bed a second time, the blood on Margaery's stomach beginning to well and then scar, Margaery felt Joffrey's excited gaze on her, and she lifted her head to meet it.

"Would you like to come with me to the Kingswood?" Joffrey asked, looking almost nervous, and Margaery could almost believe, in that moment, that he was just another boy, nervous and silly.

The slight smirk he gave her, though, killed that thought.

It was always there, hiding underneath whatever charms he managed to dig to the surface, that mask that hinted at so much more cruelty than Margaery had already seen him display a thousand times over.

She would be lying if she said it did not frighten her, but Margaery had seen more frightening things.

It helped that, most of the time, she was able to handle him. To an extent.

She winced as she thought of the way her thighs had stuck with blood for the last two days.

She had not been a virgin on the night he took her to bed, of course, unofficially, but that had not seemed to keep her husband from drawing blood as though she were one.

Her only comfort was that he had not taken her in such a way since, had seemed almost...repulsed every time she voiced the idea, and would ask if her moon's blood had come before changing the subject.

She did not truly know what to make of that. He did not seem to have lost interest in her, that much was clear.

He didn't want to hurt her. Joffrey...loved her, and Margaery didn't know if the thought made her sick or elated.

A part of her was very much relieved for that, though she would be far more relieved if there was a child in her.

Margaery nodded, widening her eyes in what she thought must look like excitement. "Truly, my love?"

He glanced around the room as if worried they would be overheard, even if they were alone, before narrowing his eyes on Margaery. "You told me once that you thought it might be fun, to watch something die. Perhaps I'll even let you do the killing."

Margaery's lips twitched, and she leaned forward, until they were nearly pressed against one another and Joffrey pulled back, as he always did.

"I would like that very much, my love."

He grinned. "We should go now, then!" he said, jumping out of the bed as though he were half his age.

Margaery blinked at him, sitting up in bed. "Now, my love?"

He glanced back at her, even as he rang the bell for his personal servants. "And why not? You're ready; I've seen you at the targets."

Margaery bit her lip, refrained from telling him that she was tired from their lovemaking, because she had just come to the conclusion that she would have him better the less weak he found her, the less vulnerable, and then, "The Kingsguard and your usual hunting companions will surely not want to go out at such an hour. And how is the hunting, so late in the night?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "I am the King. They will do as they are told. And besides, I did not mean hunting tonight."

She blinked at him. "When, then?"

He smirked. "There is a hunting lodge off in the Kingswood, some distance from here. It will take the night to ride there, and we can hunt all day tomorrow." He grinned, noticed that she did not seem to share his elation, and faltered.

Perhaps it was too suspicious, to wonder at his motives for wanting to take her away from King's Landing in the dead of night, but Margaery would be more suspicious if the idea were not obviously spur of the moment.

"Ready the hunting dogs then, Your Grace," she said with a smirk, lofting out of bed and tossing on the gown she had left at the foot of their bed when their lovemaking began.

Joffrey grinned.

Chapter Text

The Kingsguard and the other members of the Court whom Joffrey enjoyed dragging along on hunts because they were suitably sycophantic were none too pleased about being dragged from their beds in the dead of night because their king and queen wished to go hunting, and Margaery found herself idly wishing that one of them would shoot said king on the hunt because of their annoyance, even if she knew how unlikely a wish it was.

She could, however, see some of them giving her strange, confused glances, no doubt confused about why Joffrey was bringing her along, even if some of them had seen how he loved to teach her to shoot his crossbow.

By the time they were all ready, it was barely morning.

Her brother Loras helped her onto her horse with rigid, stiff movements; she knew that she had hurt him with what she had said about the horrible day that Ser Osmund had assaulted her, knew that she should never have said those words, now that her head was clear enough to think such things.

Before all of this, she and Loras had been so close, and Margaery missed that, horribly. Missed the brother who had been replaced by this stern, cool Kingsguard.

“What’s this about?” he whispered to her through clenched teeth, lest Joffrey, who was seated on a stallion just in front of her, overhear.

Margaery shook her head; she didn’t want to worry Loras, for their king’s whims changed with the wind, but her newfound knowledge about her husband’s true feelings for her had her feeling quite safe.

Even if she still couldn’t quite believe it.

“Come on!” Joffrey shouted impatiently, when the entire tired troupe seemed to want nothing more than to wait, and the kennel men let the hunting dogs off their ropes, the feral creatures snarling and snapping at the bit.

Margaery found herself wondering if Joffrey had ever thought of setting dogs after humans, instead of rabbits or harts. She shivered, pulling her white fur wrap more tightly around her shoulders and reaching for the reins from her brother’s strangely unwilling hands.

She sent him a small smile, and then kicked her horse until it stood astride with Joffrey’s own, ignoring the strange look her husband sent her as she did so.

“Shall we?” she asked him, forcing a grin, and Joffrey grinned back at her, kicked his horse, and started off at a fast gallop after the dogs.

Margaery had grown up in Highgarden though, a fact that few seemed to take to heart, and she knew a horseman when she saw one; her sadistic young husband was hardly that, and she bit back a snort as she saw the way he seemed to huddle against his stallion, kicking it when there was no need to do so and clutching to the reins like a lifeline.

She did not know how long they rode for until they found their first cluster of rabbits, the dogs setting on them before Joffrey’s servant could even hand him his crossbow, but by then the light from the slowly rising sun was just barely trickling through the trees of the Kingswood, and Margaery was glad of her wrap, for she was just close to freezing.

She wondered if her husband’s blood ran hot, looking at him now, grinning as one of his men picked up a dead rabbit by the ears, as he smirked and waited for the sycophants around him to applaud his hunting.

She noticed that, though several other men shot down rabbits, they were careful not to laud their accomplishments above their King’s.

And then they were moving again, Margaery rather surprised that her lord husband had not asked her to shoot at anything, since, as she understood it that was rather the reason this hunt was taking place at all. When she asked him, however, he was quite indignant.

“And have your first kill be nothing more than a spring hare?” he asked, raising a brow at her. “No, we will have to find something more elegant, for you.”

Margaery smiled, pretended to be complimented by the words, wondered if Joffrey was planning on waiting until they found some member of the smallfolk who was not meant to be wandering Joffrey’s woods.

They did not find anything more for some time, and eventually stopped in a small green clearing, where Margaery was expecting their servants to pitch tents in anticipation for a longer hunt, for surely Joffrey would not be satisfied just yet.

Instead, they rode just a bit further, until a small cottage came into view. Margaery blinked at the sight of it; somehow, she had not imagined a cottage to be their destination within these woods, though she supposed that there must have been some king with more finesse than Joffrey or Robert Baratheon, who would have preferred not to pitch a tent during a hunt.

“Do you like it?” Joffrey murmured into her ear, and Margaery forced herself not to jump. Instead, she turned to him with a dazzling smile.

“I love it,” she told him. “But I thought we were hunting, not resting.”

Joffrey grinned. ‘We’ll sleep here until mid-morning. The harts will be more likely to run, then.”

Margaery looked at the bloodlust in her husband’s eyes, no doubt exacerbated by the hunt, and doubted they would do much sleeping.

She was correct, in that assumption, and when the two of them finally emerged from the cabin, she found herself almost feeling sorry for the dozens of men who had been forced to listen to them, though she found that more than a few of them were looking at her with the same pity in their eyes.

And, as they marched through the grassy forest floor this time, rather than riding, Joffrey suddenly turned to her, ignoring the yipping of the hounds or the men around them.

“When was the first time you wanted to kill something?” Joffrey asked her abruptly, and she blinked at him as she attempted to formulate an answer he would find acceptable.

She wondered at his use of the word ‘something,’ if he meant specifically an animal or if even humans were nothing more than things to him.

Things to play with for his own amusement, as Joffrey had once said.

"I have long since had...urges," Margaery said carefully, ignoring Loras’ horrified look and noting the way that Joffrey licked his lips as she spoke. Encouraged, she continued, "It is just that, well, for a lady, it is difficult to satisfy such urges."

Joffrey grinned, taking her wrist in his hand. "Well, you don't have to worry about that any longer, my lady. My Queen can do whatever she wishes." His eyes flashed. "I'd like to see these...urges."

Margaery grinned as someone blew the horn to indicate that their prey was in sight. “I think that you are about to, my love,” she murmured, and Joffrey grinned happily.

He insisted on Margaery being the first to take a shot when the first deer came into sight, and Margaery felt her heart clog her throat as he handed her the lovely golden crossbow he’d had made for her, what seemed like so long ago, now.

The hart lay in the grass about a dozen paces away, the hounds already ripping into its flesh in their efforts to hold it still, the hunting party silent around her, waiting for her to take the shot, and Margaery could see the hart’s frightened, big eyes as it gazed up at her.

For a moment, she saw another pair of frightened, big eyes, blue rather than brown, and Margaery’s hand nearly faltered.

Luckily, her husband thought it only adrenaline, and he moved behind her, steadying her.

"Like this," Joffrey said, taking her hand and moving it up the crossbow, his touch slow, firm.

She leaned back against him, hearing a startled little gasp as their bodies touched, squaring her shoulders and moving her finger around the trigger of the bow. "Like this, my lord?" she asked, pretending that she had forgotten the way he had taught her how to use one of these, before.

He smiled, nipping at her ear with just a touch of something beyond affection, and Margaery suppressed a shiver. "Perfect. Now kill it."

Margaery forced a grin, her finger pulling the trigger, and she watched as, just a few feet away, the startled stag fell to the ground, a bolt through its heart.

Dead, just like that, with the twitch of a finger.

And Margaery felt nothing, watching it die, but a faint thrill of unease.

As she watched the light die from its eyes, hearing Joffrey's panting, excited breaths behind her, hearing the dutiful cheers of the hunting party, Margaery wondered if this would be the only creature she ever killed. Doubted it.

She hadn’t realized that she had scraped her cheek when she took the shot, not until Joffrey reached out and tilted her chin up, licked the scrape delightedly even as Margaery failed to even glance at him, staring instead at the dead hart.

She wondered how soon it would be before Joffrey wanted her to kill something else.

Something human.

Chapter Text

“Lady Lannister!” Joffrey called out, in a taunting, happy voice as Sansa attempted to evade him in the throne room she had only been crossing to get to the library because she had heard that Joffrey had taken his wife on a hunt and would likely not be back for several days.

Of course they had come back early, just this once, and Sansa felt dread pool in her stomach as she turned back around and forced herself to curtsey before her king.

She supposed it was a good thing, that Margaery could have some reprieve from her vile husband, if she avoided him after the hunt.

“Your Grace?” she asked, as Joffrey came to stand before her.

Joffrey’s gaze flicked down her body, before his hand reached out and, in full view of the court and his two Kingsguard, which, she could see, was filled with about a half of a dozen people, and none of them her allies, cupped her breast through the thin light blue gown she wore.

Still, they had all fallen silent and were staring openly, and she felt her cheeks blush bright crimson with mortification as they watched this unfold with morbid interest, hating every one of them almost more than Joffrey in this moment.

Sansa tried to pull back, but Joffrey only followed her, smirking and tightening his hold on her breast.

She was reminded, for a moment, of her wedding night with Tyrion, of how he had reached for her breasts in a similar fashion before he left her alone, and choked back sudden tears.

“Don’t you like my touch, Lady Lannister?” he asked mockingly. “You ought to appreciate anything a king deems fit to give you.”

Sansa choked on air as his fingers dug into her smooth flesh, the thin cloth barely serving as a barrier, and bit down hard on her tongue to avoid crying out.

“Your Grace-,”

“I asked you a question, you ungrateful bitch,” Joffrey snapped, and she could feel his fingernails digging in now, wondered if he hurt Margaery like this when they-

But of course, she already knew the answer to that, now.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she demurred, bowing her head and hoping that, if he did not meet her eyes, he would not see the hateful lie there.

Joffrey let out a little humming sound, letting go of her, and Sansa blinked back tears of relief. “Of course you do,” he said, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his hand on it, as though he had been sullied by her touch, and not the other way around. “You’re nothing more than a little whore, after all.”

Sansa nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Joffrey looked almost annoyed by that response.

"My lady wife grows jealous of my attentions to you, Lady Sansa," Joffrey said with an impish grin, and Sansa sagged with relief, biting back a sob at the words. "She told me so, on our hunt jut yesterday. She thinks that I should pay far more attention to her than, as I believe she put it, 'that Northern castaway.'" He grinned. "I bet you never thought you could make anyone jealous, did you?"

Sansa swallowed hard, lowered her eyes again. "It was never my intent to hurt Queen Margaery, Your Grace," she said, curtseying prettily so that he would not see her smile. "I will endeavor not to, in the future."

Joffrey raised a brow. "Women are so affected by these sorts of things, but I have no desire to hurt the feelings of my most beloved wife. We will simply to have to be more discreet, Lady Sansa."

Sansa lifted her head. "Your Grace?" she asked, swallowing hard when she realized that her voice was trembling.

Joffrey smirked. "You must not hurt my queen, but I am your king, Lady Sansa. Don't you think I'll miss our games?" His voice lowered an octave. "Wouldn't you?"

Sansa gulped. “I...You are my most loved King, Your Grace,” she answered dutifully, but Joffrey merely harrumphed in disgust.

“Hasn’t my fool of uncle gotten you with child yet?” he asked suddenly, and the air left Sansa’s lungs at that painful reminder that their lack of a child would only be left alone for so long, after Cersei’s departure from court.

After all, Cersei had yet to become full with a child from Lord Willas, as far as Sansa had heard, and the Lannister line must continue.

She swallowed hard. “No, Your Grace,” she whispered hoarsely, and Joffrey had to lean forward to hear her, or at least he did so, which resulted in him staring rather obviously down the front of her gown.

She blushed again, when Joffrey lifted his head, looking less than impressed.

“Holding out for me then, are you?” he asked with a wicked grin, and Sansa sucked in a breath, suddenly realizing how her lack of a pregnancy could be taken by Joffrey for the first time.

“Your Grace-,”

“My love!” Margaery’s happy voice echoed from the other side of the room, and Sansa nearly wilted in relief as Margaery and her retinue came into sight.

Margaery was wearing a golden gown that...showed off her assets rather clearly, two thin strips of cloth all that covered her breasts, showing as much skin as could be considered decent in a gown that hugged her flat stomach and waist, opening just below her knees. A ring of solid gold clung tightly to her neck, and Sansa wondered how she could bear to wear such a thing, without feeling choked. She was...rather breathtaking, and Joffrey seemed to lose all thought of Sansa at the sight of his queen.

Joffrey looked shamefaced, surprisingly, though it only lasted for a moment before he moved forward, swept Margaery into his arms. “My queen,” he said possessively, as he gripped around the waist and tugged her against him.

Margaery giggled like a maiden, and Sansa found herself feeling rather sick, wondered if perhaps one of the courtiers in this room had been on her side after all, accounting for Margaery’s miraculous timing.

“The kitchens have agreed to make a feast from the meat we brought back from the hunt, my love,” Margaery confided in him, as if such information was important, and Sansa rather thought she had her answer. “Tonight, even. Won’t that be lovely?”

When Joffrey looked at his lady wife, his eyes seemed to soften, as though he had a bit of humanity left within him, and Sansa wondered how his lady wife could bring both that and his sadistic streak out of him so easily.

“Of course they will,” he said imperiously. “We deserve to eat the fruits of our hunt after such hard work.”

Margaery laughed. “Indeed. Though, I don’t think we ought to invite anyone who wasn’t on the hunt to eat with us. They would certainly take it for granted, don’t you say?”

Joffrey glanced at Sansa again, seeming to remember her for the first time. “Of course they would,” he said finally, and then, “And besides, they didn’t come with us. They wouldn’t understand the thrill of eating what we hunted.”

Sansa had a feeling those words were meant more for her than for Margaery, and she shivered appropriately.

Margaery tugged on her husband’s arm. “Well, perhaps I can show you how much I...appreciated,” she licked her lips, “the hunt before we consume it, my love?”

Joffrey gulped rather audibly. “Yes, I think you had better,” he said finally, and Margaery laughed, a fake, hollow sound that Sansa barely managed not to cringe at. And then she was wafting away, and her ladies, clearly believing that Joffrey would follow.

Joffrey however, glanced back at Sansa, tugged her against him even as Sansa bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“Don’t worry, Stark,” Joffrey hissed in her ear, “I’ll fill you with a child too, if you beg me nicely enough. I might even be gentle about it, then.”

Sansa shuddered, swallowed hard. “Yes, Your Grace,” she whispered hoarsely, and Joffrey laughed.

Chapter Text

"I am so sorry that he did that to you," Margaery said gently, reaching out to brush Sansa's hair behind her ears. "Elinor was in the Great Hall when he approached you, and she came to find me as soon as she heard."

Margaery had summoned Sansa to her chambers in the Maidenvault once more for a cup of tea, and Sansa could hardly remember the last time she had done so, eager to go and not wishing to encounter Joffrey once more.

She wondered at that, that Joffrey never seemed to bother his wife in her private chambers, almost as though she had forbidden him from entering them.

The thought almost made her smile, but thinking of Joffrey only reminded her of what Margaery had just barely saved her from earlier.

Sansa frowned. "She didn't need to do that."

Margaery raised a brow, though she looked terribly sad. "Didn't she?"

Sansa hugged herself. "He wouldn't have...gone any further in front of so many people."

Margaery clucked her tongue like she didn't quite believe that anymore than Sansa did, but said nothing more of it.

"He's been acting strangely, lately," she said instead. "Just the other night, he wanted to go hunting merely because I had suggested it, never mind the late hour. He woke half the palace to go."

Sansa had been rather amused at her husband's annoyance at Joffrey's antics, she remembered. She wondered if he had heard about Joffrey's most recent act. "So I heard."

"And then he - oh!" Margaery bit her lip suddenly, so hard the skin around her teeth went white, and she reached a trembling hand to her stomach.

"Margaery?" Sansa asked in alarm.

"It's nothing," Margaery assured her gently. "Just some stomach pains, I'm sure. I had a late midday meal today."

Sansa furrowed her brow, wondered if she should ask further, but Margaery seemed determined not to speak of it.

Strange enough, that was. She knew how hard Margaery strove never to show outward pain to her Joffrey, how in control of herself she always was, in that regard, and wondered if the little amount of pain she was revealing to Sansa heralded something worse or if she merely felt that much more comfortable, to show pain around her.

Or perhaps she had merely been surprised.

Margaery was still beautiful, Sansa thought, even if her face was twisted into one of discomfort, and she shivered at the thought, wondered if it showed just how much time she had spent around Joffrey.

"Anyway, he took me to this cottage in the middle of the Kingswood," Margaery went on, and Sansa pretended not to notice the way she rubbed at her stomach as they continued to sit on the edge of Margaery's bed. "It was...quaint, for a king."

Sansa giggled. "I hope you didn't tell him that."

Margaery raised an imperious brow, though the effect was lost by her quirking smile. "What do you take me for? Of course not." She took a deep breath. "Sansa, there's something I would like to discuss with you."

Sansa glanced at her. "Oh?" she asked, sensing from the sudden seriousness in Margaery's voice and the furrow of her brow that this was something far more important than their earlier japes.

Margaery took a deep breath. "And I want you to understand that there is no need to say yes simply because we are friends, or because I am your queen, and that I do not even know if the Lannisters would allow it."

Sansa felt her breath catch in her throat, reminding her of the time when Margaery had plotted her marriage to Willas.

Margaery bit her lip, scooted a little closer to Sansa on the bed, as though she were remembering just the same thing. "I am planning a visit to Highgarden, in the near future. I have not quite figured out the particulars, but Joffrey wishes to see his mother and I...well, I wish to know that my family is well, despite that witch's presence amongst them now."

Sansa giggled a little, schooled her face into a serious expression when Margaery glanced at her again.

"I am afraid it would not earn you distance from Joffrey, and I would understand if you would rather remain here, where you will be safe from him for only a little while, but...I was wondering if you would like to travel there as one of my ladies, my companions. Many of my ladies and prestigious ladies of the court would be coming with us, of course, but-"

"I would love to," Sansa murmured, not even noticing that she had interrupted Margaery’s almost nervous stammering, for, even if Joffrey would be there, it would be a break from this horrid golden cage, even if only for a little while, and Highgarden was far closer to Dorne than King's Landing. "That sounds wonderful, Margaery."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask whether Ellaria Sand and Prince Oberyn would be accompanying them, but she knew that she could not let on about such things and give them away, not even to Margaery, as much as she wanted to.

Margaery smiled, relieved. "Good. I-" she reached out again, clutching at her stomach once more, and Sansa followed her hand with her eyes, feeling an unaccountable nervousness for her friend.

Margaery's smile was strained when she lifted her head. "Perhaps I am coming down with something," Margaery said, and sounded rather sorrowful. "We so little get time to spend together these days, and I would hate to ruin it so soon."

Sansa stood, brushed down her dress. "Nonsense. We will have all the time in the world when we go to Highgarden, and you can show me everything about your girlhood there. You will have much to plan for the journey though, and you ought to rest."

Margaery pulled in a breath. "Of course. Thank you, Sansa."

Sansa blinked at her. "Whatever for?"

Margaery smiled. "Merely for being there, my dear girl. You’ve no idea what a comfort you are."

Sansa smiled wanly back at her, although she rather thought she did. After all, Margaery had no idea the wonderful comfort just her presence had been for Sansa, since she had arrived in King’s Landing.

Chapter Text

Margaery woke to the most horrible cramps she had ever experienced, looked down and saw that she sat in a mess of blood on her bed.

She was cold, and she pulled the blankets about her tighter until she realized that these, too, were stained with blood, that the reason for her coldness was in fact the blood drying on them, but still, Margaery held them close and shivered.

At first, she thought that perhaps they were merely that, cramps that would go away with a bit of sweet wine, but Margaery had never been one to be so effected by cramps, and this was certainly not some sort of stomachache, as she had originally thought, from eating too many plums the afternoon before.

She'd felt nauseous, the last few days, but had attributed it to killing that damn deer, rather than any true malady, and so had not bothered to consult a maester on this. Had not thought this would be a problem, when she'd seen spots of blood on her smallclothes just a few days before.

Had actually been rather relieved to see them, that she would not have to suffer having Joffrey bed her for a few days.

She felt a rare moment of panic that she couldn't quite explain before she reached between her legs and pulled her hand away, felt blood that was thicker than anything she had ever felt during her moon's blood on her fingers.

She bit her lip as another wave of pain washed through her, a feeling like a hand yanking at her navel, and slowly pulled herself up into a sitting position and grabbed hold of one of the bedposts, the one that Sansa had been sitting against, earlier, her other hand reaching down between her legs, as if to hold the blood in. As if that would achieve anything.

Margaery used the bedpost now to keep herself upright as her legs began to shake and her body was swept over in another wave of agony, nearly blacking out for a moment before she let out a small noise of pain.

She knew the moment it happened, the moment the blood spurted out of her in great bouts along with something that wasn't quite blood, knew what was happening to her in that instant, even if she couldn't quite believe it.

She didn't know quite how long she crouched there on the bed, her body aching and her womanhood spilling more and more blood, didn't know how her too pale skin glistened in sweat or if she was even Margaery anymore, or some other feeble creature she had never thought she would become.

The feeling of her child leaving her womb and spilling painfully out onto the blankets beneath her in a mess of blood and fluids, even if a maester would tell her it was not a child but merely a mess of bloody clots at this point, left Margaery sobbing, for she could not even call a maester with this.

She bit her tongue until she tasted more of her own blood flooding into her mouth, squeezed her eyes shut and rocked back and forth in pain, pulled her knees up to her chest and grimaced at the feeling that gave her, let them fall onto the bed again as her head fell back and knocked against the bedpost.

She hadn't even known she was pregnant.

The thought made her want to laugh hysterically, and instead, another hiccupping sob made its way past her throat. She reached out, picking up the nearest object, a golden Lannister mug that Joffrey had gifted her, and threw it across the room.

It slammed into the far wall, shattering to the ground with a loud crash.

Elinor burst into the room at the sound of the cup breaking, eyes going wide as she saw the pool of blood staining the sheets around Margaery's body, staining her night gown, far more blood than a moon’s blood would warrant, the shattered pieces of the mug on the other side of the room.

"My lady-"

Margaery was staring down at her hands, coated in blood. "Some water, Elinor, and we'll need to change the sheets and throw out these. Burn them; there's too much blood for it to be my moon's blood."

"What..." Elinor gaped. "What happened?"

Margaery shook her head. "Towels, Elinor, and a basin of water. Something for pain. Don't let anyone see you."

Elinor, to her credit, moved quickly, rushing out of the room and coming back only moments later with the desired items, not giving Margaery much time to herself, for which she was absurdly grateful.

"It won't stop bleeding," Margaery whispered in a dead voice as Elinor started to clean her. "It won't stop."

Elinor glanced between her legs, spread them apart gently. "I've heard that sometimes the bleeding can last for several days, weeks, even."

She had not thought to ask Elinor about such knowledge, for, to her mind, Elinor was more innocent than she, but Margaery was sure that she must have known, that the maesters would have given her preparation for such an event as the queen’s head lady.

The pitying look in her eyes as she cleaned Margaery’s skin was all too telling, as well as the bitter taste of sourleaf as Elinor placed it on her tongue.

It did what Margaery wanted, of course, as she chewed on the vile stuff until her insides began to cool and feel almost numb, her body shaking even still.

“I’m sorry,” Elinor murmured, but Margaery glared at her.

“I’m not.”

“Margaery-”

"It seems Ser Osmund left his mark after all, but I won't let him succeed at this, too," Margaery said, tonelessly. It had been so long, holding in that secret, that it felt good to say the words, even if she had vowed to herself not to, that she would never reveal that to anyone. But then, this was only Elinor, and so the words spilled out of her.

"I thought...I thought surely not, and I didn't take the vile stuff that Cersei wanted to give me because I thought surely…And I haven’t noticed any of the signs...I thought that, at this point, it couldn't still haunt me..."

When she looked up, Elinor was staring at her in horror. "But...I thought..."

"I lied," Margaery said calmly, staring straight ahead as she allowed Elinor to clean her, her own hands shaking too badly to manage it herself.

Cleaned her child off of her thighs. Dead, before it had even formed in her belly.

“You what?” Elinor gasped.

“I lied,” Margaery snapped, a little more cruelly this time, but neither of them seemed to notice. She wondered if her lips had already gone red from the sourleaf, as the stuff was rumored to do, wondered how Elinor planned on getting rid of that, of the smell that would follow her miscarriage. “I had to.”

Not that she would have wanted the child, anyway, or would allow herself to mourn its loss. Ser Osmund Kettleblack’s get, his final way of fucking her over from beyond the grave. How could she want to mourn such a monster's spawn?

Elinor faltered, turned to stare at her in horror, and Margaery shifted uncomfortably, could not bring herself to meet her cousin’s eyes, wondered if she had spoken those words out loud, and then realized what she had said that had so disturbed Elinor.

Instead, Margaery stared straight ahead as she answered Elinor’s unspoken question. She knew that if she met Elinor’s eyes, she would break down as she said her next words.

"Do you really think the Lannisters would have allowed me to remain queen for even a moment if they'd learned the truth?" she asked quietly. "I would have been thrown aside as Sansa was, for a much better reason, to make room for some more controllable bride, or Joffrey would have tormented me for my failure as a wife for the rest of our marriage. Cersei would have won."

Elinor's eyes were shining with tears when she looked up to meet Margaery's own. "Margaery..."

She couldn't stand the pity she saw there, in Elinor's eyes. "No can know about this,” she said finally, not pleading, commanding. "Elinor."

It was a statement, not a request.

Elinor nodded, the motion almost frantic. "Of course not, Margaery, but...Why didn't you tell me? I thought…I thought he didn’t succeed, that you were all right," Elinor asked quietly, even as she tossed the ruined sheets into the fire.

Margaery's eyes were on the flames as they ate up the sheets, wide and glassy, unblinking. "Even the walls have ears. And...it wouldn't have mattered."

"Wouldn't have mattered?" Elinor echoed incredulously. Then, as she moved to gather up the rags she had used to clean Margaery as well, she murmured, "Just because you are perfect, does not make you infallible, Margaery." A pause. "We all need help, sometimes, and I may not have known how, but I would have done everything I could to help you."

Margaery's eyes lifted from the flames. "Get out, Elinor."

Elinor swallowed, lifted her chin. "No."

Margaery blinked at her in shock. "Elinor..."

Elinor placed a hand on Margaery's shoulder, pulled her in against her chest. "I'm not going anywhere, Margy. I'm staying right here."

Margaery glared at her for a moment, and then, with a hesitance that did not seem to match Margaery Tyrell at all, she reached out, placing her hand over Elinor's, squeezing it gently in gratitude.

She swallowed. "Someone will notice that the sheets are gone."

Elinor nodded silently. "You'll tell Joffrey that you've had your moon's blood again, then. He'll be angry, but he'll never have to suspect anything else. You’ll…” She paused. “You will have to take it easy, in the next few days. I don't know, uh, everything about losing a...” She swallowed. "But I do know that you cannot do anything strenuous."

Margaery swallowed. "I told him at the beginning of our marriage when I didn’t want to be with him that a woman on her moon’s blood could not have relations. He won’t be pleased,” she said finally, and Elinor choked out a laugh.

“How can I help you?”

Margaery sucked in a breath, clung to her friend and pretended she was the sort of person who could receive comfort in such a way. That she should receive such comfort.

Elinor ran her fingers through Margaery’s hair and murmured soft words against her skin. It took Margaery some time to understand what she was saying.

“You’ve been strong for so long, now,” Elinor was whispering, “Carrying this burden all by yourself.”

“I didn’t know I was pregnant,” Margaery rasped out, even as she knew that was not the burden Elinor was referring to.

“I didn’t mean that,” Elinor whispered softly, and Margaery sucked in a breath, glanced down at her shaking hands.

“Perhaps…How do you know it wasn’t Joffrey’s?” Elinor asked delicately after some time of sitting in silence, but Margaery merely shook her head.

“It wasn’t Joffrey’s,” she said, rather desperately, even if she knew that nothing the two of them had done so far could have resulted in a child. It couldn't be Joffrey's; she couldn't bear that thought. “It wasn’t Joffrey’s. It was…his.”

Elinor nodded. “All right. I wish I’d known. I would have found some way for the bastard to die more painfully.”

Margaery snorted out a laugh. “Joffrey probably would have listened,” she said, and then sniffed a little, hated herself for that sound.

“And yet, you merely had his head taken off,” Elinor said, sitting up slightly, staring at Margaery with a look Margaery didn’t dare to interpret.

“I…” Can’t speak of this.

Elinor merely nodded, as if she’d heard the words Margaery couldn’t say, and went back to stroking her hair in silence.

After a while, Elinor whispered, "Come on, love. Let's run you a bath and get you cleaned off before anyone sees you like this, all right?"

Margaery nodded shakily, willed her fingers to stop trembling as Elinor helped her to stand, wished her body still didn't ache with the pain that should have gone with her child.

Chapter Text

Ser Jaime could not save her from Joffrey forever, after all.

Soon enough, Ser Meryn came for her again, and neither ser Jaime nor her husband was there to save her.

She walked as if to her execution. In some ways, she thought, it was, for she knew what was coming. Joffrey had been only too clear, on that front.

"Ah, Lady Sansa!" Joffrey called, grinning at her and swinging the door to his chambers open when they arrived, gesturing for Sansa to come in. "We've been waiting for you."

"Forgive me, my lord-" Sansa started, but then stopped abruptly at what she saw when she entered the room fully.

Margaery lay stretched out on the bed, fully nude but with a sheet half-covering her, half-lidded eyes glancing up at Sansa with a look that Sansa could not fail to disguise as lust.

Joffrey sat on the bed beside her, fully clothed and grinning at Sansa.

"Your Grace?"

Joffrey smirked, jumping to his feet and clapping his hands together. "My lady is afflicted with her moon's blood," he informed Sansa. "She can't...entertain me as well when she's on it, for I ever do hate to see her bleed."

Sansa bit her cheek to keep from responding in the way that she wanted to that, and waited for Joffrey to explain what was going on here.

"But I am the King," he said, leering openly at Sansa now, "And I can't be expected not to enjoy myself just because she can't do so fully."

Sansa swallowed hard. "I don't understand-"

"I was going to fuck you," Joffrey said bluntly, "Throw you over the side of the bed and rip your pretty cunt open until you were screaming underneath me, and let my queen watch me put a Lannister baby in you, but she's a bit of the jealous type, my love, and I don't think she'd want you to have a Lannister baby before she does."

Margaery chuckled from the bed, and Sansa's eyes slid over to her once more. It was in the subtle tells that she found it; the chuckle wasn't the kind she used around Sansa, and the area around her lips was pinched a little too tight.

And, in her eyes, concealed behind lust and playfulness, Sansa could see fear. And, beyond that fear, a hint of something that wasn't quite Margaery. A hint of eyes that were too bright, breathing too shallow, too calm.

But she did not hold the stink of alcohol, nor did she seem to have all of her lost her inhibitions, as Sansa might have expected from drunkenness.

Besides, Margaery had expressed her feelings on Cersei’s drunkenness often enough. This was something else, and Sansa wondered if Joffrey knew of it or had forced it upon his lady wife.

She usually couldn't tell when Margaery was playing Joffrey. She wondered if Joffrey had threatened her, when he realized she was on her moon's blood. If that was why Sansa had been summoned and Margaery was putting up no argument to having another woman in the bedchamber.

"So I've...come up with something that I think will be enjoyable for both of us," Joffrey went on. "I was going to just use a whore, but I should have nothing but the best for my queen."

Sansa felt her insides go cold. "I don't...I..."

Joffrey moved forward suddenly, slamming his heavy red lips against her own, and Sansa grunted, pushed her lips open when he seemed to demand it, didn't move beneath him as she felt his fingers digging hard into her sides, wondered if this was what it was like for Margaery every night.

His fingers dug into her sides until she cried out in pain, and Joffrey laughed, pulling away, biting at her lip as he did so, drawing blood.

And then he reached out, rubbing at it, and Sansa was hard-pressed not to bite off his finger. "Hmm," he mused, licking at the blood with his tongue. "Stark blood doesn't really taste like snow."

Sansa forced a smile. "It doesn't, Your Grace. I could have told you that easily enough."

Joffrey frowned at her. "Then again, I haven't tasted enough of it to tell."

Sansa went silent, and Joffrey laughed. "Scared you, did I?"

She swallowed.

"Answer me!"

"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa whispered, swallowing hard and glancing to the side, so that she didn't have to look at him as she spoke.

Joffrey laughed again. He reached out, ripping open the front of Sansa's gown, and she let out a startled cry - not that he had ripped her gown, mind, but that he had done so himself. She had thought that, as always, he would wait for a guard.

She did not think that he had ever brutalized her with his own hands, and wondered why that had changed tonight.

No doubt to impress his lovely wife.

She gulped as the cold air brushed against her naked skin, though she was not the first one to be naked in the room, and she reached up, crossing her arms over her chest in a vain attempt to cover herself.

Joffrey batted her hands away. "Don't," he growled at her, just fiercely enough for Sansa not to do so again.

She lowered her arms to her sides, barely refrained from fidgeting as Joffrey walked slowly around her, glanced up and met Margaery's eyes only for a moment.

Margaery looked away first. She thought she could read the other girl well enough now to see the guilt in her eyes, alongside whatever substance she had taken to get through this.

She supposed Margaery Tyrell was not infallible to Joffrey’s horrors after all, and there was something as heartwarming in that as it was disturbing, for surely it meant Margaery knew what was about to happen.

Behind her, Joffrey reached out to cup her left buttock, squeezing it teasingly, as he said conversationally, "You know, Stark, after all this time, finally seeing you has been such a disappointment."

Sansa licked her dry lips and refrained from crossing her arms over her chest once more.

"Apologize, Lady Lannister!" Joffrey shouted, coming in front of her once more, and Sansa jumped a little. "Apologize for disappointing me."

Sansa swallowed. "I...I'm sorry, Your Grace, that you've been disappointed by me." Her cheeks were stained crimson, she was sure, and she couldn't bear the thought that this was happening in front of Margaery, wished that Joffrey would kill her by the end of it.

Joffrey pouted, eyes roving down her form slowly enough to make Sansa blush even harder.

"I hurt her," he said suddenly, and Sansa blinked at him.

"I...I don't..."

"My wife the Queen," Joffrey said, glancing back at Margaery. She sent him a dazzlingly fake smile, and Sansa didn't know how he couldn't see the fakeness of it. Or, at the very least, the drug fuelling it. "You saw, I think."

She swallowed past a suddenly dry throat. "I did, Your Grace."

He pursed his lips. "But I don't like hurting my queen," he went on, and Sansa buried her surprise deep. She'd rather thought Joffrey would always enjoy hurting everything. That he couldn't enjoy hurting Margaery...she didn't really want to think about that. "I'd much rather hurt you."

Sansa's lips wobbled. "Your Grace-"

"My queen is so much more beautiful than you," he went on, cocking his head. "I can't believe you were almost my queen, once."

Sansa nodded, knowing her part well. "I am far less deserving than Her Grace, Your Grace," she said, cheeks burning, and she hoped, even if she was mortified by what had occurred so far, that Joffrey would send her away, now.

Of course, she knew that now that he had her here, he would not do so at all.

"Kiss her," Joffrey said suddenly, gesturing to where Margaery lay splayed out on the bed, eyes blown wide.

"My lord-" she began, and Joffrey stepped forward, sneering as he towered over her.

"Are you disobeying an order from your King?" Joffrey demanded, his voice turning to that dangerous drawl that Sansa knew all too well was followed by some act of cruelty.

She ducked her head, and then murmured, "My husband would not approve-"

"Your husband may be my uncle, but he's also my subject," Joffrey snapped. "So do as I say."

She had known this day was coming, of course.

Had known, since the day Joffrey took off his mask and she learned what he really was, since the first time he'd made a joke about what he would do to her in the bedchamber, that Joffrey was going to hurt her here, in this large bed, was going to make her wish Ser Meryn Trant hadn't gotten in the way of tossing him off that ledge a thousand times over. Had known that he was going to make her bleed.

She had not known, however, that he would do all of this by making her kiss a drugged Margaery.

"My lord-" Sansa tried, one more time, even as she knew it was futile.

"Kiss her!" Joffrey snapped, stalking forward as if to grab her, and Sansa sighed.

"My lord-"

But then Margaery was there, one leg elegantly pulling Sansa down onto the bed by wrapping around her thigh, sweet lips kissing Sansa's cheek without hesitation, and Sansa blinked at her in shock, barely able to react as those lips pried her own open.

Margaery's actions were almost jerky, and for a moment, she thought that Margaery's eyes looked almost lucid, almost pained, as she stared up into Sansa's, searching for something, but then she was kissing her again, and the moment was lost.

"Well?" Joffrey demanded, from behind them. "Be a good little whore and kiss her back."

"Of course, my lord." She sent Margaery an apologetic glance, but Margaery was not looking at her eyes, was instead peppering kisses down Sansa's neck and letting out approving little sounds, sucking on her skin when Sansa attempted to pull away.

"Just be still, Sansa," Margaery whispered softly in her ear, and Sansa stiffened, "No, not like that. I've got you," she repeated the words Sansa had told her not so long ago, and Sansa barely resisted the urge not to cry when Margaery kissed her again, soft and warm and oh so wrong.

She did not apologize for kissing Sansa, though Sansa did not expect her too, here, in front of Joffrey, and so Sansa did not apologize for kissing her back, despite the drugged haze that Margaery was so clearly in.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Joffrey; his hand down the front of his trousers, leering at them with something wicked in his eyes that she had only seen when he told the Kingsguard to beat her, or ordered someone's horrible death.

She was more disgusted with Joffrey in this moment than she had ever been, save perhaps when he had killed her father and forced her to look upon his decapitated head, and yet that feeling was lost to the pleasure of Margaery's plush lips against hers, gentle and soft and sweet, like one of the candied roses she'd tried from Highgarden once, when Margaery had bade her to.

Margaery smelled of fresh flowers, from this close, as Sansa had always imagined she would.

And then she could hardly imagine anything, could hardly think of anything, for Margaery's tongue was suddenly invading her mouth, lips lightly sucking, hand roving through Sansa's hair.

And then her mouth was on Sansa's again, but instead of a kiss, she whispered, "I'm sorry."

Sansa blinked stupidly, could not bring herself to understand for a few long moments why Margaery should be sorry, and then Joffrey was pulling her to her feet, shoving her against one of the bedposts, and she cried out as her naked back slammed against it, as the warmth of Margaery vanished in an instant.

Joffrey smirked. "How did you like it, Lady Lannister?" he taunted. "Kissing my lady, whom only I have ever kissed."

Sansa let out a shuddering breath, unsure how to answer that. If she said she had, would he ridicule her or be angry with her? If she said she hadn't, would he be offended on his lady's behalf?

Would Margaery be offended?

Sansa shook that last thought from her mind, because, as in control of the situation as Margaery had seemed a moment ago, she knew that Margaery was just as much of a victim of Joffrey in this moment as she was.

"I..."

Joffrey raised a brow, glaring. "Well?"

He was nothing in here; between the two girls, they could overpower him, Sansa thought idly. Push him down and choke him to death.

Ser Meryn Trant stood outside the door, along with two other Kingsguard who had looked markedly less gleeful at the thought of what Sansa was to endure. She glanced away from Margaery, swallowed hard.

Sansa sucked in a breath, shook her head. "She is your queen, Your Grace."

Joffrey shared a look of mock indignation with his lady wife. "You mean you were not satisfied by what little my lady wife deigned to offer a traitor's daughter like you?"

She knew instantly that it had been the wrong answer, and not just from his words, but from the crossbow that Joffrey abruptly lifted, level with her face.

Sansa Stark had always suspected that she would die by a Lannister's hands, as almost the rest of her family had died. She'd had so many nightmares to that effect, and all of the daydreams of throwing Joffrey off of a cliff or killing him by Margaery's side could not change that unavoidable fear.

She had merely thought, in the months since she had grown closer to Margaery and had two men promise to take her from this place, that her death would not come at the hand of Joffrey Baratheon, twitching over the trigger of his crossbow, in his chambers.

For a moment, she forgot to breathe, forgot to think of anything at all, could hear nothing but her frantic, pounding heart in her chest, could see nothing but the twitch of Joffrey's fingers on his crossbow.

And then Joffrey laughed, and tossed the crossbow onto the bed, beside Margaery's feet where they hid beneath the blankets.

Sansa fell to her knees in front of the bed, gasping, her breath returned to her and her chest heaved in terror, like one of the frightened rabbits Joffrey was no doubt teaching Margaery how to kill on their hunts.

Her lower lip was wobbling dangerously, and Sansa could freely admit, in this moment, that she was terrified.

"I think we ought to punish her for that, hadn't we, my lady?" he asked his lady wife, and Sansa turned frantic eyes over to Margaery, pretended she didn't see the glazed look in those eyes as they met her own.

Margaery didn’t answer, merely standing from the bed and walking on feet that looked like they were shaking, for one whose eyes were blown wide with some substance or another, to stand at Joffrey's side, one arm wrapping around his shoulder, her breasts swinging against his clothed chest.

Unlike Sansa, Margaery did not seem the least bit uncomfortable, walking in front of both her husband and Sansa in nothing but her own skin.

Sansa lifted her eyes, flushing as Joffrey's hand wrapped around his lady wife's waist and squeezed at her hips.

Margaery let out a moan that Sansa wasn't entirely sure was faked, and then Joffrey's attention was turning back to her, that vile smirk back in place.

"How ought we to punish her, my lady?" he asked Margaery, and Sansa felt tears stinging in her eyes, tears she would not allow to fall, not before Joffrey. Not again.

"I don't know, my love," Margaery murmured, and Sansa wondered how Joffrey did not hear her voice shake, peppering kisses along Joffrey's neck as she had just been doing to Sansa, moments earlier. Her hands fumbled in his hair for a moment, as if she had quite forgotten how to move them, before they grabbed hold and pulled him forward for a kiss.

Sansa gagged, and Joffrey saw it, his eyes narrowing cruelly.

"I know," he said suddenly, "We ought to beat her, like the whores that I beat when Uncle Tyrion sent them to me," he said, and Margaery's smile faltered for only a moment, before she nodded, looking rather breathless.

"Or, perhaps we could leave her like this," Margaery said suddenly, a fevered light in her eyes as she murmured the suggestion, just loud enough for Sansa to hear, "Send her back to her lord husband in the shame of knowing she has disappointed her king and queen."

It took Sansa a moment to realize that this was Margaery attempting to help her, because that thought terrified her, but she knew the moment Margaery suggested it that it would not be enough for Joffrey.

He shook his head. "No, she's encountered our disappointment before, and continued in her foolish ways. I think we ought to send a better message than that."

Margaery hesitated. "Pardon, love, but she's also been beaten before. Perhaps...a night in the dungeons would make her understand her wrongs."

She sounded almost desperate, but to Sansa, spending a night in the horrible dungeons where her father had spent his last nights hardly sounded better than a beating.

Joffrey's eyes lit up at that idea, and he glanced at Sansa, no doubt coming to the same realization as she was.

"I know!" he said, giggling like an excited child to Margaery. "She's gotten a beating from all of my Kingsguard, yes, but she's never gotten a beating from someone she likes." He smirked at Sansa. "Unless you're going to lie and say you like me, Sansa?"

Perhaps they hadn't been thinking the same thing, after all.

Sansa shivered, knowing that there was only one way that she could respond to that question, and that it would only get her into more trouble.

"Of course I love you, Your Grace," she murmured, looking down at her naked knees. "You are my King and Lord."

Joffrey laughed aloud.

Sansa looked up to see the two of them staring at each other. "See?"

Margaery blinked at him. It took Sansa a moment to realize that the other girl had not spared one glance toward her since getting up from the bed. She wondered if there was a reason for that. Wondered if it helped, as it had for Sansa so long ago, when she watched Joffrey abuse those under his power.

"A beating from me?" Margaery asked, and it was only then that Sansa realized what Joffrey had meant, as Margaery had no doubt sparsed together already.

"Someone she likes."

Joffrey grinned. "I know you'd like to," he murmured, stepping forward and holding something out to her. It took Sansa a moment to realize that it was the end of his crossbow, and she blinked, wondering how it had gotten from the bed into his hands without her noticing. "Just like when we're hunting."

He wrapped his arms around Margaery, pulling her back flush against his chest, holding the crossbow until she took it in nimble fingers, that, despite the situation, weren't shaking.

Sansa felt a tear slip down her cheek, then another.

"We can't kill her," Margaery said suddenly, and Sansa found herself only somewhat grateful for the reminder. The other half of her was disappointed.

"Of course not," Joffrey told her, frowning a little. "Although that would be fun. Perhaps next time I will find a whore. But, it's still fun to watch her squirm."

Margaery licked her lower lip. "How do you want it?" she asked, and Joffrey moved away from her, clapped his hands like an excited child.

"Over the bed," he said, and then seemed saddened when Sansa did not immediately move to comply. "Move!"

Sansa climbed to her feet, panting heavily, her heart beating wildly inside of her head, and stood awkwardly in front of the bed, her back to them, her chest rising and falling a bit more steadily now.

Margaery was not Joffrey. Margaery would not hurt her as much as a beating from Joffrey would, even if the blunt end of the crossbow made her cringe to think of it marring her skin.

She wondered if it was what had left those horrible scars on Margaery's skin, before.

And then the first blow struck down across her shoulders, with no warning whatsoever from behind her, and Sansa gasped, letting out a sharp cry of pain that she didn't get the chance to hold back, wincing when she opened her eyes and saw Joffrey sitting on the bed in front of her, staring at her as though he was enraptured.

Behind her, she heard Margaery grunt in what almost might have been pain, though Sansa did not know what she would feel pain about. She was not the one being beaten, after all.

"Harder," Joffrey snapped at Margaery and then, as if remembering that he spoke to his beloved wife, "My lady. She'll survive it. She has before."

He looked more in love with Sansa as he watched her in pain now than he ever had while they had been affianced, and Sansa gritted her teeth and leaned her hands against the bedpost for leverage when the second blow fell.

She saw stars that time, heard Margaery murmur something that might have been an apology and might have been an expression of excitement for Joffrey's sake, and she wondered what strange drug it was that Margaery had taken, and which she doubted Joffrey knew she had done.

Sansa wondered if he would turn his rage on Margaery now, if she pointed it out.

When Sansa came up for air again, after the third strike caused her body to nearly fold on itself and she heard Joffrey's wicked laughter, it took her a moment to even see Joffrey again. All she could see was stars, pain.

And Joffrey, rubbing his prick in front of her through his trousers.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut as the next blow fell on her side, because she did not want to see Joffrey seeing her in such a vulnerable state, never again. Did not want to see the look of enjoyment on his face.

Courtesy is a woman's armor, her septa had once told her.

Courtesy was doing nothing for her, now.

She was aware enough to realize that Margaery had not hit her anywhere that would permanently damage her, if she could find it within herself to be grateful for that, aware that the blows from a wooden crossbow could be much worse, and yet.

And yet.

She pictured having any sort of conversation with Margaery in the future, pictured the conversation they had just recently had, and knew she would wonder if Margaery had offered Sansa up to save her own skin, even if she could forgive her for it.

She would have merely liked to have known.

"Perhaps I'll bring the Kingsguard in next time, to watch," Joffrey snickered suddenly, and Margaery spoke up, lucidly, for the first time. She was panting, from the exertion.

The exertion of beating Sansa.

"I don't think the King would appreciate the Kingsguard watching this," Margaery murmured, and Joffrey blinked at her. "After all, it is one thing to share in this pleasure with me, quite another with guards who have already been honored by Your Grace."

Joffrey blinked again, and then nodded. "Of course, you are right, my queen. Perhaps only Sansa, then."

Sansa breathed in relief, tears slipping fast and hot down her cheeks, for, at least in this moment, Margaery had stopped hitting her with the crossbow.

She wondered if the welts and bruises and spots of blood that appeared from this beating would be better or worse than those she had received from the Kingsguard. Margaery was not hitting her so hard as they always had, but she had a far stronger arm than Sansa had been expecting.

She was only doing this because of Joffrey. Because she had to.

If Sansa repeated that litany enough in the safety of her own mind, she might just start to believe it.

Margaery paused, and Sansa heard the crossbow thunk to the ground behind her. She nearly sobbed with relief. "Perhaps, my lord. For tonight, though, would you like to finish?"

Sansa flushed scarlet at those words, but Joffrey only grinned, turning toward her, then. "Tell me, aunt, has my lord uncle used you yet like this? I do know he so loves to use his whores. He must have told you the story of what I did with the ones he sent me."

Sansa managed to stammer out some answer, not meeting his eyes, until Joffrey seemed to grow bored of her stammering and snapped, "Well, get on with it, then."

Sansa was expecting another beating. She was not expecting Margaery to spin her around, hand reaching out to steady her, and then to kiss her again. And again. And again, and Sansa was ashamed to admit that, despite the throbbing pain in her back, the fact that she could feel blood oozing around Margaery's fingers where she grabbed her, did not know if it was hers or Margaery’s even if she did not know why it should be Margaery’s, she could lose herself to this sensation.

She was merely relieved that it did not progress beyond kissing. She did not think she could have borne that.

It did not progress beyond kissing for Joffrey, though. When she opened her eyes, she could just see him beyond the frame of Margaery's face, could see as his body seized and the hand inside his trousers retracted, before he bounced to his feet and turned to watch them.

Sansa felt physically ill with her hatred toward him, with the hatred she felt toward Margaery in this moment, that dull, throbbing feeling that she had always felt toward whatever Kingsguard had just been ordered to beat her, even if she knew they were only doing as they were told.

"Did you like that, my lady?" Joffrey asked, and Margaery bit her lip, let out a ragged breath.

Sansa wondered how Joffrey did not notice her stuttering response. “It was...I...very much, my love,” she said finally, and Sansa could almost believe the words. “You spoil me even when I cannot do the things to you that we so enjoy.”

Joffrey almost looked like he was flushing, for a moment, before he grinned as well. "Well, I'm glad," he told her. "I wanted you to like it. You don't have to be jealous of her, you know. And this was your treat, for having to bleed again. Unfortunately, I doubt there will be a next time," he said, and now he was leering at Sansa again. "You'll have a child by then, no doubt."

Sansa wondered, through her haze-filled mind, who he was talking to, then. If a child would protect either one of them from bleeding because of Joffrey.

"No doubt, my love," Margaery agreed, though her voice sounded slightly strangled, and Sansa saw that she had gone rather pale, her hand moving to her naked stomach as if of its own accord.

Joffrey licked his lips. "Oh, yes." And then he seemed to notice Sansa, still there. "What in the seven hells are you waiting for? Get out."

Sansa gulped, moved off of the bed and moved to collect her clothing off of the floor, face burning.

The King and Queen did not even appear to notice her departure, when she finally managed to pull herself together enough to do so, too wrapped up in one another.

Tyrion, however, had noticed her absence, for perhaps the first time.

"Where were you, my lady?" Lord Tyrion asked, eyes glinting with suspicion as Sansa shut the door behind herself.

Sansa swallowed hard. "I was...taking a walk in the gardens. I wasn't aware that I needed to inform you of it, my lord."

Her lord husband's eyes narrowed, and Sansa felt her stomach clench as she stumbled toward the bed, pretending tiredness rather than pain, biting her lips so hard they bled to keep from crying out.

"So late at night?" he asked from behind her, and Sansa flinched at how quickly he had approached, at how harsh his voice was.

She wished that he would leave, so that she could lie here and close her eyes and then put the cream that Shae had brought to her the last time Joffrey'd had her beaten - so long ago now - on her back.

"Yes," she whispered, knowing that wouldn't happen until tomorrow. Knowing that the wounds on her back would be bruises by then, would hurt even worse than they did now.

And knowing that she would have to make a conscious effort to avoid Prince Oberyn over the next few days, for she had no doubt that was where her husband suspected she had been, and while Lord Tyrion was a friend for now, she did not know how long that would last.

Chapter Text

She remembered what Margaery had once told her, that some women liked big men, some small, some tall, some...other women.

And Sansa had laughed in surprise at such words, but she couldn't get the thought of Margaery's puffy, pink lips from her mind, could still feel them pressed against her own.

Beautiful, that moment had been, before Joffrey had ruined it as he ruined everything, but her dreams did not seem to remember Joffrey being present at all.

In them, it was only her and Margaery, their kissing progressing until they were both under the sheets of Joffrey’s great bed, though, here, they were in Margaery’s chambers, Margaery kissing a line down her body before she did things to Sansa – wonderful, beautiful things that Sansa had not thought possible – that Sansa had never imagined before, and Sansa felt such pleasure that-

When Sansa awoke, her stomach felt like it was on fire, and she lifted a hand to her mouth, covered it before the contents of her stomach could end up splayed across her bed.

She was grateful, for a moment, that Lord Tyrion was not there, that he had already left for the day so that he would not see her like this, but the moment did not last long, and soon enough, Sansa found herself rushing to the chamber pot in the corner of the room. She barely had time to kneel in front of it before last night's dinner made a reappearance, and Sansa felt angry tears stinging at her eyes.

She would have to explain this away to one of the servants who came to clean the room. Tyrion trusted only Shae, but Shae was not always around to do so, and she knew that the moment word got out amongst the servants that she was throwing up her meals, Shae would have something to say about it. To Tyrion, most likely.

Sansa couldn't bear that thought, and vomited some more.

When there was nothing left within her and her throat burned and her back ached from the exertion, Sansa sat up a bit, wiping at her eyes and feeling her teeth rot in her mouth.

She had dreamt about Margaery, in the throes of passion, because of what Joffrey had forced her to do. And, much as she hated herself for it, Sansa had enjoyed it.

Both in the dream and last night.

Not the part where she was beaten, of course, where Margaery had raised her hands against Sansa despite their close friendship, where she had found herself wondering if she would ever be able to trust Margaery again, but...the other part.

The part where Margaery had kissed her, drugged, too sweet kiss or not.

When she had lived in Winterfell, Sansa had never heard of the sort of relations between two men and two women that sometimes took place in King's Landing. The epitome of such...relations, too innocent was she to truly know of them, was a knight, like the Knight of Flowers, come to sweep her off her feet and marry her.

She had not even thought of such relations being possible until she came to King's Landing, heard about the whores that Joffrey had abused, heard about Prince Oberyn's many lovers since coming to King's Landing, both male and female, heard the rumors about the Knight of Flowers whom she had idolized since he gave her that flower at the tourney that she hadn’t believed.

Cersei took great delight in mentioning Prince Oberyn’s lovers to her, every time it seemed that Sansa and Prince Oberyn had a conversation that had been overheard, but Cersei was away in Highgarden now, and besides, Sansa had not known whether she spoke just to hurt her, as was usually the case, or not.

In truth, she had not really understood how such relations...actually took place, not really. She understood from her septa the...general way that relations took place between a husband and his wife, but little more for detail.

She had simply assumed that such things took place between two women for a man's pleasure, but what she had felt last night when she kissed Margaery...

Sansa shook her head, vomited up the last of what remained in her stomach. It was a ridiculous thought, and she knew she was only focusing on that one thought because she could not bear to focus on the rest of it.

The part where Margaery had abused her, for Joffrey's enjoyment, even if Margaery had no other choice, at the time.

Sansa had heard the words Joffrey had been saying, before he turned to beating her. She had no doubt that his decision not to rape her, which he had been fixed on for so long, was Margaery's doing, even if a beating was hardly better.

But she had survived beatings before this one, and she would survive this one, as well. She had to.

She picked up the salve that Shae had given her from where she’d hidden it in her dresser, grimacing when she realized that it would be difficult to apply to her back on her own, but that she could not ask Shae for assistance here.

Shae would want to tell Tyrion, and Sansa could not bear that thought any more than she could bear the thought of him learning of her sickness.

The lid of the salve came off in Sansa's hand, and, with an angered cry, she threw it across the room, watched it slam into the wall with a loud thud that made her wince as she heard it crack.

But she doubted that Shae would notice if any of it was missing, and so Sansa took a liberal amount onto her fingers, stripping off her gown and applying it as best as she was able as far as she could reach, and where she could not reach, grimacing and hoping for the best.

It was all Sansa Stark had ever been able to hope for, after all.

She heard a knock on the door halfway through applying the putrid smelling stuff, and Sansa froze, her eyes going wide with horror.

"Just a moment!" she called, and hoped that whomever was on the other side would wait just because she had asked them to, slipping back into her gown, running across the room to pick up the cracked lid once more, and tossing the salve back into its hiding space, even if it was a bit more haphazard now than it had been before.

The door creaked open just as Sansa vaulted back onto the bed, the vomit bucket forgotten in her haste, and she cursed herself as Shae entered the room with a smile and a platter of food.

"Something to eat, my lady?" Shae asked, as she entered the room, and Sansa glanced up from the bed where she lay and shook her head, turning as quietly as she could onto her back so that Shae would not see the mess it was before she did so.

There were no use in hiding the vomit bucket now, but she could at least hide that. She hoped.

"I...I'm feeling a bit under the weather, actually," Sansa said quietly. “Fever.”

That, at least, was true.

Shae tutted, coming forward and pressing the back of her hand against Sansa's forehead. Sansa tried not to flinch as the woman's nose wrinkled, and she glanced back at the bucket, her eyes turning to Sansa once more with far too much understanding in them.

"Some soup, then," the other woman suggested, and Sansa bit her lip, knew that if she put the other woman off too much, she would begin to suspect something else.

"All right," she whispered, and was relieved when Shae smiled, unsuspecting. Then the other woman promised to go and fetch some food from the kitchens, and Sansa fell back into the bed and covered her face with her hand, bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, turned on her side and sobbed into the pillow.

Chapter Text

Tyrion Lannister was not a man accustomed to many surprises, since his arrival in King's Landing. His removal as Hand of the King had been a surprise, his marriage to Sansa Stark one as well, though less so, as he understood his family's wicked mind.

The news of her family's death had also been a surprise.

The arrival of the new Queen into his cramped offices as Master of Coin was also a surprise, though he hoped it would be less of a horrible one than the ones to come before it.

She arrived with half of her retinue, ladies and Kingsguard surrounding her as they had since Cersei's ill thought out plot against her, dressed in a simple, loose white gown that failed to account for the elaborate designs she had worn since arriving here, and wearing a pensive smile.

"Lord Tyrion," Margaery greeted, and the little man blinked at her, before stepping forward.

"Your Grace," he dipped his head into a bow. "It is not often that you seek my company. What can I do for you?"

She smiled, a small smile. "And I deeply regret not doing so, Lord Tyrion." She waved her ladies back, though Ser Meryn Trant stared at Tyrion suspiciously even as he followed the other ladies to allow them some privacy.

Tyrion could not resist smirking at the other man.

His smile became a tad forced, then. "As I said. Anything that I might be able to do for you?"

"I have noticed the way that my lord husband the King looks at the Lady Sansa," Margaery segued suddenly, staring intently at him.

Tyrion swallowed uncomfortably. "I do believe that the whole of court has seen the very same, my lady."

"I do not believe that he will stop unless the Lady Sansa is no longer at court to distract him," Margaery said coolly.

Tyrion raised a brow. "From what I have observed of you, Queen Margaery, you are a highly intelligent woman. The last Stark will never be allowed to leave King's Landing."

Margaery nodded. "A shame. For I do believe that a lady of the House of Lannister would."

"I thought you enjoyed her company," Tyrion said quietly, eying her with concern. He knew that the young Tyrell queen was a manipulator; one need only see her for a few moments around Joffrey to understand that, but Sansa was strangely fond of her, and, now that Sansa had been married off, he could think of no reason for the queen to encourage a friendship between the two of them for her own personal gain. Nor for her to suddenly want Sansa gone, when Joffrey's lusting after her had been noticeable throughout the court for months. "Is there a reason for this sudden change?"

"I do enjoy her company," Margaery told him solemnly. "That is the very reason why I suggest such a thing, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion's eyes narrowed. "You think that...her company would not remain the same, should she remain in King's Landing?"

Margaery took a deep breath, gave him a wide smile, and he realized that Ser Meryn was glancing at them suspiciously, now. "I think it will be irrevocably changed if something is not changed about her environment, and soon, Lord Tyrion."

He swallowed hard, wondered what she knew that had no doubt come from another of Joffrey's vile boasts.

"Thank you for informing me of this, Your Grace."

She hesitated, and then said, in a slightly louder voice than before, "The King would like to have a banquet, soon. You should inform the Small Council of this and ensure that we have the funds for it. I am sure that House Tyrell would be more than happy to provide any needed funds, now that our houses are so firmly united."

He lifted a brow at that, but the little queen was already sweeping away with her ladies and Ser Meryn behind her.

He wondered if he should be offended at her insinuation that he would not help Sansa without some sort of bribe, but he supposed that this new young queen knew as little of him as he did of her.

And he was grateful for the warning, however cryptic. He would not do Sansa the disservice of not acting on it.

With that resolve, Tyrion turned back to his accountings.

Chapter Text

Elinor had convinced her, after much wrangling, that she should see someone. That if she did not let a maester examine her, there could be lasting, detrimental effects that Elinor would not know how to heal.

Margaery knew all of that, of course; but if anyone saw her, their loose lips could see her killed, her family ruined.

And then Elinor told her of her worries that, if she were not careful, the damage done during her miscarriage could be permanent, could keep her from ever having Joffrey's child.

Elinor didn't know any more than Margaery did, and that was finally what convinced her. She had already proven that she was willing to sacrifice someone for the sake of her womb, after all, so she might as well sacrifice someone she didn't care about, as well.

"Maester Gluin," Margaery smiled warmly as the Tyrell maester slipped into the room behind Elinor. "How kind of you to come so quickly."

Maester Gluin glanced at Elinor. "Well, her ladyship implied that it was a matter of some urgency."

Margaery nodded. "Of course. I can trust you to be discreet?"

"Always, Your Grace," Maester Gluin promised, giving her a little bow as he stepped further into the room and Elinor closed the door behind him on the two Kingsguard standing outside.

Maester Gluin clutched to the little bag in his hands. "What is your malady, Your Grace, and why send for me over the Grandmaester?"

"I would rather this happen with someone I am more comfortable with," Margaery told him quietly.

He nodded. "Ah. It is a...female trouble, then?"

Margaery clicked her tongue. "Indeed."

"Do you believe that you are with child, Your Grace?" the maester asked, sounding uncharacteristically excited. Or perhaps it was simply Margaery's belief that all maesters should be as stiff and boring as Grandmaester Pycelle.

"No," she said quietly. "No, rather the opposite, in fact. I believe that..." she glanced at Elinor, who nodded encouragingly and then came to stand beside where Margaery sat on her divan.

"I believe that I have lost a child," Margaery said finally, swallowing hard. "And...I know little of such things, and neither does Elinor. We thought it best to get some outside advice, on how to...properly approach such an issue. Discreetly."

The maester's eyes widened, and his face morphed into an expression of deepest sympathy, but not before she saw the flicker of surprise there. "My condolences, Your Grace."

Margaery waved a hand. "I hardly knew I was pregnant, Maester Gluin, but your condolences are appreciated."

She knew instantly that it was the wrong thing to say by the look on Maester Gluin's face, that any normal woman would have been as inconsolable as he seemed to believe she should be.

Margaery had been inconsolable. The day she'd lost her child, and the day she'd lost Sansa, as well. She wasn't, any longer.

Margaery cleared her throat. "Now, where would you like me for an examination? I believe one should be...prudent."

His head bobbed. "Indeed, Your Grace. Perhaps on the bed, and your lady can sit with you there, pull your gown up to your hips."

Margaery nodded. "Of course. Elinor?"

Elinor helped her to situate herself on the bed, and Margaery forced her muscles to relax as Maester Gluin moved forward and spread her legs apart, began to inspect her as though she were some sort of brood mare.

She knew that many young girls were forced to undergo similar inspections before marriage, to ascertain whether or not they were lying about being untouched, though she thanked the gods that no one had suggested such a thing for her. She got the feeling that Cersei had desperately wanted to, and then been talked out of it.

She wondered whom she had to thank for that.

Her mind wandered as Maester Gluin began to poke and prod at her body, wandered to Sansa, and she felt nothing but immense guilt at the thought of the girl whom she had worked so hard to befriend since her arrival in King’s Landing.

She had hurt Sansa. Terribly, she knew, and she doubted that Sansa would ever forgive her for it, doubted that Sansa, in her state, had realized what was at stake.

She'd had no idea what Joffrey was planning that night, when she'd told him that she could not lie with him because of her moon's blood. It had been partly true; she'd still been bleeding, but not from that. She'd known even as Ser Meryn Trant dragged Sansa into the room that there was nothing she could do to stop what was about to happen, that the control over Joffrey she'd been so proud of having was so easily lost.

It was the hardest acting she'd done since meeting the little shit of a husband she'd been stuck with, not being able to cry out with Sansa every time she let that crossbow hit the other girl, not being able to turn about and hit Joffrey over the head with it.

And she was no longer sure that the Iron Throne was worth such acting ability, much as she'd once lusted for it.

Margaery sucked in a breath as the maester’s work got a bit too intimate, as her cunt began to grow wet with his work.

He glanced up. “Ah...that sometimes happens, Your Grace. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Margaery pretended not to hear him, closed her eyes and waited and bit back the cry of pain that wanted to emerge from the way he was examining her.

She had sacrificed Sansa for her own cunt. The maester had better find that it was healing, or Margaery might just fall on Joffrey’s sword at her next opportunity to do so.

“Your Grace?” the maester called, and Margaery blinked, realized that he had been trying to get her attention for some time.

“Yes?”

“Has there been any bleeding?” he asked her.

Margaery bit her lip. “A bit, sporadically, since the day of the event. I have had to tie myself off with a rag, as I do when I have my moon's blood. There was...much, on that day.”

“You should have contacted me sooner,” he told her, gently reprimanding. “There might be internal bleeding.”

Margaery sucked in a breath; she had not thought of that. She hoped that what she had done to Sansa had not caused internal bleeding, but then, Joffrey had done the same to her, time and time again, and she had healed of it.

Much as she hated to think it, because she little wanted anything to assauge the guilt she was feeling, Sansa would heal.

The only question, at this point, was whether or not Margaery would.

The maester lifted his head again.

"There does not seem to be internal bleeding, but as your lady suggested, you should rest as much as you can. And have you been feeling any abdominal pain, or any pain in your lower regions?"

Margaery shook her head, pretended not to feel the slightest bit awkward as the man stuck his instruments inside of her.

"And has there been any trouble when you wish to use the bathroom?" Maester Gluin went on, intent in his work.

Again, Margaery shook her head. "None. But...I have been having some pains, when I...When the King and I have relations."

Maester Gluin blinked at that.

"How long ago did the...miscarriage occur, Your Grace?" the maester asked gently, prodding at her sensitive flesh with his instruments, a look of fierce concentration on his face.

Margaery tilted her head, not wanting to think back to that horrible day but knowing all too well. "Several days."

The maester pulled away abruptly, wiped his hands of the stray juices that had been caught on them while he examined her, put his instruments aside.

"You should not have been...having relations with your husband, in that time," the maester reprimanded her. "Your body has gone through a horrible ordeal, and needs time to heal properly. Did no one tell Your Grace and His Grace this?"

Margaery swallowed. "I understood that it was something I should be careful of," she told the maester.

He blinked at her, his eyes narrowing, and really, Margaery should have known better than to send for him. He had been her maester since she was a young girl, and he would know if she lied as easily as her own grandmother might.

Well, perhaps not quite so easily, but Margaery regretted sending for him, all the same, even if a Tyrell maester was better than a Lannister.

"The King does not know, does he?" he asked finally, and Margaery stiffened.

"Maester Glu-"

"One would think that the knowledge of the Queen's miscarriage would travel further than it has," Maester Gluin muttered. "Your Grace, you cannot keep such a secret from the King, not if you wish for another child. You should not even be out of bed. Rest, tell His Grace, and in several days, I will examine you again, let you know when Your Grace can return to all of her marital duties."

Margaery sighed. "I do not want His Grace to know."

The maester stared at her. "Your Grace, you will not be able to keep something like this a secret...The child was His Grace's, was it not?"

Margaery looked away. "Of course it was."

Maester Gluin's eyes gleamed. "Your Grace, as your maester, I will need you to tell me the particulars."

Margaery raised a brow. "Do you?"

"Yes, Your Grace. And then, if you do not, I will have to tell the King."

"Are you not loyal, Maester Gluin?" she asked coldly, a hard feeling sweeping through her. It reminded her of how she had felt the moment before she had killed that deer.

"Yes, Your Grace, of course."

"To me or to the Crown?" Margaery demanded. "How long has it been since they bought you, Maester Gluin?"

"They have not-"

"Guards!"

Two members of the Kingsguard appeared, and Margaery was relieved that one of them was not her brother, not for this task. She did not want to force such a task on Loras.

"Send Maester Gluin to the Black Cells," Margaery ordered them. "He has insulted me."

The two guards surged forward, gripped Maester Gluin by the arms. His bag of instruments fell from his hands and clattered to the floor.

"Your Grace, I have only-"

A suddenly thought pierced Margaery's thoughts, and she swallowed hard before speaking, glanced at Elinor, who gave her a faint nod, looking ill. "And have his tongue cut out, lest he wish to continue speaking. I will not have it, do you understand?"

Maester Gluin abruptly closed his mouth.

"Cut off his hands as well," Margaery ordered in a moment of panic, and was, for once, gratified that Ser Meryn Trant was there, and could be counted upon to do just that.

Ser Meryn was a strange, sadistic man who took the same level of enjoyment that Joffrey did out of others’ suffering, but she had found that, strangely enough, as much as his leering looks and smirking sometimes disturbed her, he was one of her most loyal Queensguard, save for Loras, of course.

And she wondered what that said about her, that it was the case.

She could not bring herself to order the man’s death, and wondered if what she had ordered was worse. No doubt, he would die of his injuries in that horrid place soon enough.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Your Grace, I beg of you-" the maester called after her as he was dragged from the room, but she could already see Ser Meryn unsheathing his sword, and a moment after the door swung shut, the loud cry and then splashing sounds.

Beside her, Elinor had gone quite pale, perhaps even a little green.

Margaery wondered if her stomach was not queasy because she had grown used to such occurrences, or because she had ordered the acts herself, wondered what that meant. Wondered if she was any less cruel than Joffrey.

"You will tell anyone who asks that the maester made comments about my ability to please my husband," she ordered Elinor, and, when the girl didn't respond, "Elinor."

Elinor sucked in a breath. "Of course, Margaery. Of course."

Margaery looked away. "He would have talked. I couldn't allow that to happen."

"I know."

"What else would you have had me do?" Margaery demanded, rounding on her. “Elinor...”

Elinor sighed. "Nothing, Cousin. Nothing at all."

Chapter Text

Shae had seen Lady Sansa after the news of her family's deaths had arrived; she had been a shell of her former self, barely eating, barely speaking, looking out at the world with the sort of bleak emptiness that Shae had sometimes seen amongst the whores of the North, when she had been stuck there for so long before Tyrion brought her back.

But she had not been tearful, then, merely righteously angry and so empty that Shae had not quite known how to comfort her.

She knew that there was something wrong with her lady; Sansa had been acting even more strangely and hunted than usual, and Shae feared that it was something Joffrey had done, but surely they would have heard about it by now, were that the case.

Joffrey ever so enjoyed boasting about his tormenting of those who could not defend themselves, and especially of Sansa.

Something else, then, but she could not get it out of Sansa, no matter how hard she tried.

The girl had been sick for two days for no reason that Shae could understand; she knew that Tyrion was not sleeping with her, because he had told Shae that he was not and she knew that he would not lie about that, but Sansa had been getting rather close to Prince Oberyn of Dorne, and at first Shae thought that might be the problem.

But then she had realized that the malady that affected her lady Sansa was not a physical one. Her sickness not a sign of some illness that Shae needed to look out for.

And then, this morning.

She had found Sansa kneeling over the chamber pot in the corner of her room as she had found her the last few days, had questioned her on her symptoms and realized that Sansa had none, besides the nausea.

And when she had helped Sansa back to bed and the girl had flinched away from her touch, Shae had been more concerned, had begged her to tell her what was wrong or, she had threatened, she would go to Tyrion about it.

At those words, Sansa had broken down and sobbed, letting her head fall against Shae's as they sat on the edge of the bed as Shae held her and rubbed soothing circles into her shoulders, told her that it would be all right even if she did not know what was wrong.

Although, Shae thought she knew. She had encountered girls like Sansa in brothels, sweet and unassuming and so young for the job they were working at for one reason or another, broken within weeks of their beginning work.

Sansa had not broken after years of being a prisoner in this wretched place, which Shae had always admired, but she looked close to breaking now, and Shae did not know how to help her. She knew that Tyrion had suggested leaving King's Landing for a time, but had not yet gotten such permission from his father.

She also knew that his father was not the paragon of legacy and virtue that his children and the rest of Westeros seemed to believe that he was, but Shae was not quite sure that advertising her own...skills, as such a plan would require, would help any of them.

Lord Tywin would use even the smallest amount of proof to separate her from Tyrion, and she could not allow that to happen.

Shae sighed, switching the plate of food that she had brought to Sansa for her break of fast to her other hand; Sansa had not touched a single crumb, and now, against her better judgment, had left Sansa alone to make the long trek to the kitchens to be rid of the empty plate.

She might have eaten it herself, had it not looked so unappetizing after watching Sansa vomit at the sight of it.

She was halfway to the kitchens when she nearly ran into Queen Margaery and her retinue of ladies and guards.

That was another odd thing; Shae had been glad for Sansa when she had learned of how Sansa and Margaery had renewed their friendship after the royal wedding, glad to see that the girl had another friend here in King's Landing, for she needed all of the friendships she could get.

But, during the last few days, the Queen and Sansa had hardly interacted. She knew that the queen was a busy women, and that any woman who could successfully distract their king from important matters of state did not have the time to always be by Sansa's side, but that they had spent so long apart, and that Sansa had not once mentioned the other girl, was...concerning.

Queen Margaery stopped Shae just as they were about to pass one another with a hand on her arm. Shae glanced up, startled, before her pretty brown eyes narrowed.

"Your Grace?"

"Does she ever eat it?" Margaery asked quietly, dipping her head toward the plate of picked over food.

Shae hesitated. "I..."

Margaery raised a challenging brow.

"Less and less by the day, Your Grace," Shae said, lowering her eyes demurely. "I...do try, but my lady is quite stubborn."

Margaery's smile was a cupid's bow. "She is that." A pause. "Has she...spoken of it, to you?"

Shae swallowed, oddly touched by the Queen's concern for Sansa. Someone ought to be, after all. "No, Your Grace. She prefers to believe that the rest of us have not noticed."

Margaery clucked her tongue. "Well..."

"What has happened, Your Grace?" Shae interrupted suddenly, confused by her own audacity. Tyrion had told her to keep a low profile here, and it seemed that she could not quite manage that, what with the way she had antagonized Cersei and now the new queen.

Margaery blinked at her. "Pardon?"

Shae blushed; she was not given to doing so anymore, not for a long while, but so much had changed since she had come to take care of Sansa.

She was not fool enough to say that Sansa had changed her; she knew that people did not change, that they never would, that, deep down, she was still a whore and Tyrion was still a man who would never marry her, but that did not make her want him any less.

Still, when she had first come to work for Sansa as Tyrion's guise at making her fit in the Keep, she had thought the little girl spoiled and frightened, and had hated her for the first few weeks of her marriage to Tyrion, much though she knew that Sansa was not sharing Tyrion's bed.

And now she was questioning the Queen about Sansa's feelings because the girl had cried on her shoulder, and she wanted nothing more than to comfort her, even if she didn't know how.

"My lady, she is...no longer herself. I was wondering if you knew anything about that?"

For the first time since she had first encountered the new young queen, Shae thought she had caught the other woman completely unawares.

Margaery blinked at her, going very pale and swallowing nervously. And then, with a bright smile that Shae recognized all too well, one that she had once given every single one of her customers before she had met Tyrion and one she had seen Queen Margaery give King Joffrey, Margaery said, "I am sorry to hear that. Lady Sansa is a dear friend, and although I am sure I do not know what ails her, I hope she recovers from it soon."

Shae nodded, dipped her head. "As do I, Your Grace."

Margaery gave her a long look. "You seem to care very dearly for your ward. Most servants do not."

Shae lifted her chin. "She is a very dear girl," she said, defying the queen to object.

Margaery merely swallowed and, giving Shae one more nod, picked up her skirts and made her way down the rest of the corridor with the rest of her servants. If Shae did not know better, she would almost say that the queen was fleeing, but then, the Tyrell queen had nothing to fear from Shae.

Chapter Text

The one saving grace about his little shit of a nephew was that his new queen had him completely whipped.

Of course, that was only a blessing when the queen was actually present. Apparently, she was ill with some sort of malady she had gotten while on that godsforsaken hunt the king had dragged her from her bed in the middle of the night to attend, and locked away in her chambers in the Maidenvault.

Joffrey was particularly annoying today, as a result, although Tyrion was rather surprised he had bothered to show up at a meeting of the Small Council without his queen present.

Perhaps he'd run out of people to bully, what with Lady Sansa being ill, as well. Perhaps some sort of epidemic was at hand, and Tyrion should have been more worried.

Tyrion started in on his report as the lowly Master of Coin when his father waved a hand for him to do so, looking down at his notes. He'd heard Lord Varys reporting on such things before, and Cersei had summarily dismissed them as not important.

But the Iron Bank was not going to give them another loan if they were unable to keep the Greyjoys in line, and Tyrion knew that something needed to be done about them, now, unless they wanted a repeat of what had happened during the Greyjoy Rebellion.

"The Greyjoys have amassed a fleet the likes of which would be dangerous if crossed in battle, and-"

“Is your wife’s cunt that boring for you, Uncle?” Joffrey interrupted mockingly, and the whole table fell silent at those words. Tyrion ground his teeth.

“The Iron Islands haven't been a threat since Greyjoy Rebellion. My mother knew as much, when she was still here." Joffrey smirked. "Or maybe she’s bored of you. I’m sure I could find her more entertainment elsewhere.” He smirked as he said the words, leaving his meaning clear. “My queen wouldn’t mind sharing, I’m sure.”

Tywin cleared his throat. “If you can’t bring yourself to act like a king at these meetings, Your Grace, you may excuse yourself.”

Joffrey glared at him. “I’m the King. You can’t just kick me out of my own Small Council.”

And then he seemed to remember the last time Tywin had done so, and fell silent.

Prince Oberyn cleared his throat, then. “It seems to me that a more pressing matter than whether or not Lady Lannister satisfies her husband is whether or not the Iron Islands are a threat to the Crown, as Lord Tyrion suggests. Perhaps more effort should be put into investigating the matter.”

Joffrey snorted derisively, clearly taking after his mother in his view of the threat of the Iron Islands. “A couple of sailors a thousand miles away with wooden paddles are hardly a concern. Besides, I don’t want to talk about that. My lady wife wants to go to Highgarden to visit her family and my lady mother, and I want the Small Council to approve such a visit and pay for it.”

Joffrey had said many stupid things since becoming King, and long before then, but Tyrion did not think anything he had said so far had quite shocked Tywin Lannister as this simple statement did.

“For what purpose?” Tywin demanded coldly.

Joffrey glared back at him, and then lowered his eyes. “I want to visit my mother, I’ve already told you. She’s barely written since going there, and I’d like to know she’s all right. And Margaery-”

“Do you doubt your wife’s family’s ability to care for your mother, Your Grace?” Tywin went on regardless.

Joffrey flushed. “Of course not.”

“I assure you, Her Grace will undergo nothing but the utmost care and happiness while in Highgarden-” Mace rumbled from his place at the end of the table, and Tyrion wondered if he had only just woken from a nap.

“I don’t care!” Joffrey snapped. “I want to see her!”

Tywin looked very close to rolling his eyes. “Tyrion, perhaps as Master of Coin you can explain to our young king why it would be foolish and impossible to fund a trip for him to travel to the Reach on a whim, and our Master of War can explain why this would endanger the King at a time when the Crown is vulnerable.”

Joffrey’s face turned puce. “I don’t need lectures from my uncle!” he snapped, glaring at Tyrion in lieu of Tywin.

“No, what I think you need is a good hiding, and your mother isn’t here to keep you from one,” Tywin snapped suddenly, and Tyrion felt his jaw drop at the words, before his father visibly composed himself. “Nevertheless, the Crown will not be funding any such whimsical venture, and you will be remaining in King’s Landing, along with the Queen. Perhaps if there were an heir to ensure the protection of the Crown in your absence, things would be different.”

Joffrey pouted. “What in the seven hells are we keeping Tommen around for, then?” he demanded petulantly.

Tywin looked rather close to snapping again; Tyrion was rather surprised he had made it this long.

“Tommen is the Prince of Westeros, and, should you die without a trueborn heir, he will take your place,” Tywin lectured him. “In the mean time, I think that you and your young queen should focus on making an heir of your own, rather than vacations to Highgarden.”

Joffrey crossed his arms, glared, looking rather pale at that suggestion, before he fled from the room.

Oberyn chuckled, but silenced himself when Tywin glared his way. Tyrion did not blame the Dornish Prince; if he’d had the balls, he might have chuckled himself.

Tywin rolled his eyes, then. “Moving on to more important matters...”

Chapter Text

"I am thinking that perhaps it is the right time to take my young wife to Casterly Rock," Tyrion said, over their dinner that evening, and Sansa froze, with her hand still poised over her drink. She glanced at him, did not respond.

They did not normally speak, over their morning meals. She knew that sometimes he wished to do so, but her cutting silence usually stopped him.

This evening, it was much the same until now, for her injuries, however better they felt due to the salve, still pained her, and she did not know if she could keep up the charade that everything was fine in front of her husband if he forced conversation between them.

And now this.

She had been waiting, for either Tyrion or Prince Oberyn to respond to her wish to leave this place soon. She had honestly not thought it would be Tyrion first.

But, with the beating she had taken, the thought of a riding a horse all the way to Casterly Rock made her cringe, even if it meant she would be far from here.

Much as she hated the thought, she would have to delay, in some way that would not gain her lord husband's suspicion.

"You might benefit from time away from Court just now," Tyrion went on, when Sansa failed to respond.

She swallowed, horrified that he somehow knew what had happened, but she thought he would have mentioned it outright if he did, would not look so calm.

Sansa blinked at him. "Would your lord father allow the last Stark heir out from under his thumb? Casterly Rock is some ways from here. I thought that was the trouble before."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes at her. "Not so long ago, I remember a lady who would have gladly left King's Landing behind at the first opportunity. And I have spoken to him, have almost convinced him that it would be for the best. For my duties, of course. And someone should check up on Littlefinger. What happened to her?"

Sansa shrugged, standing and straightening her gown. "She grew up."

"Lady Sansa-"

"May I be dismissed, Lord Tyrion? I have an audience with Queen Margaery, and I wouldn't want to be late."

He sighed, taking a long drink of his wine. "Of course, my lady."

She walked toward the door, nodding once to Shae, who was sending her a concerned look, before calling back to Tyrion, "My lord?"

He glanced up, seeming surprised that she was still in the room; she supposed she deserved that, after all, she usually ran from him at any given opportunity.

Perhaps he thought that she had not encouraged his suggestion because she was terrified of living alone in Casterly Rock with him. As if she would be any less safer from him there than here.

"You should not seek to give me false hope where there is none, my lord," she said, her voice soft, and she was ashamed to find that it was nearly cracking by the end of her sentence.

He opened his mouth, as though he might say something, might reassure her somehow, but then closed it once more, just as Sansa shut the door to their chambers behind her.

A younger Sansa would have jumped at the opportunity, would have found herself fantasizing over the idea of being able to leave this wretched place full of Lannisters, escape her horrid little husband and go home to Winterfell, where she belonged.

Casterly Rock was just as full of Lannisters as King's Landing, and the Boltons, who had helped to kill her brother and mother, had Winterfell, now.

What was the point in leaving? She was just as safe here as she would be anywhere.

Sansa stood, wondered if Tyrion would object if she took another gulp of wine in order to gather her courage, and in the end didn’t do so, going off to find Margaery as she had told Tyrion she would.

Truth be told, she'd been avoiding Margaery throughout the day, staying in her rooms because Margaery seemed oddly hesitant to seek her out there. It was safe there, then.

And she hated the thought that she now needed to hide from Margaery as well as from everyone else in King’s Landing. That Margaery, who had been her constant in all of this, had beaten her, just like any of Joffrey’s Kingsguard. That she had just learned how much she cared for Margaery.

It would have been so much more convenient to have learned this long ago, or long in the future, if they had one. Not now.

She sucked in a breath, determined not to think of such things as she made her way to Margaery’s chambers, lest she turn around.

She didn’t even know why she was going, what she was going to say when she arrived. Didn’t know if she wanted to rail against Margaery or sob in her arms.

When the door to Margaery’s chambers opened at her hesitant knock, Sansa was surprised to find Margaery by herself. It was certainly unusual, for the other girl.

“Sansa,” Margaery said, her voice soft and surprised, and she reached up with a movement that was oddly self-conscious, wrapping her crimson robe more firmly around her shoulders, and Sansa found herself blushing, remembering how she had seen Margaery naked, not two nights before.

Sansa licked her lips. “May…May I come in?”

Margaery nodded instantly, held the door open for her, closed it behind her, and Sansa tried not to think about how it reminded her of that horrible night.

Margaery’s rooms were dark, smoky, and it took Sansa a moment to realize that she was burning incense by her bed, accounting for the tangy smell filling the air.

“Margaery…” Sansa turned to the other girl as she watched Margaery sit nimbly – almost painfully, though Sansa did not know what right she had to pretend at pain when Sansa had been hissing and cringing since that night – on the edge of the bed.

She stopped speaking then, unsure what to say. Margaery, at any rate, spoke before she could find her own words.

"Sansa, I would like to apologize for the other night," Margaery said in a rush.

Sansa blinked. She could not remember the last time someone had apologized to her.

“Joffrey...I told him that I was on my moon’s blood, because I...” Margaery glanced away. “Anyway, it was my fault that he called for you. He was...punishing me, for denying him. I...do not have as much pull over him as I once believed, as I have been finding out lately.” She swallowed, “But...that does not excuse what I did to you. It was reprehensible, and I...I understand if you cannot forgive me for it, if I have killed everything that was once between us with my actions.”

Sansa stared at her. “Margaery, I...”

She stopped then, because she was not sure herself if she could forgive Margaery for this, as Margaery had implied, and she did not want to rush to say she would now, where she might have with anyone else.

Margaery was her friend, or had been. She would understand.

Instead, Sansa nodded stiffly, and Margaery seemed to wilt before her.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sansa said at last, grudgingly. “Joffrey is a beast.”

She did not feel guilty, uttering those words here, in the safety of the chambers she had just dreamt so vividly about...

Luckily, Margaery mistook her blush for fear over what she had said, and moved to shut the door more firmly.

“That is...kind of you to say, Sansa, but I shall hold myself accountable for it, anyway. I...” she hesitated, her eyes soft and kind and very different from everything they had been the night before. “If your lord husband has any plans to leave King’s Landing soon, then I think that you should not waste any opportunity for anything here.”

Sansa blinked at her, remembered the words Tyrion had spoken to her just before she came here. “You spoke to him.”

Margaery looked away, nodded. “I do not...I do not think that what occurred two nights ago will be the last of Joffrey’s attentions toward you. I...worry.”

Sansa did not know whether to thank her for that or yell at her for it.

“What about you?” Sansa blurted out suddenly, and Margaery blinked at her in clear surprise.

Sansa forged on, “I do not think I am the only who suffered that night, Margaery. And, though I hurt from it, I also...When he made us kiss, I mean...That is...I am sorry for that. That...that you suffered, as well, before and after that. I suppose that Joffrey hurt you in such ways...before.”

Seven hells, she sounded like the little fool Cersei had always called her.

"I...It's...quite all right," Margaery said gently, eyes still blown wide in clear surprise that Sansa never saw from the other girl, reaching out to touch her shoulder, and Sansa flinched away.

Margaery nodded, lowered her arm, still looked shocked that Sansa would think of her, after what had happened. Sansa herself was rather shocked, if she was being honest, but she forced herself to be strong, to not show it. "It doesn’t matter.”

Sansa shook her head, frantic to not be the victim here. Or, failing that, the only one. "No, he...he gave you something. Or...but you had something. Something to make you...I shouldn't have took advantage like that, kissing you. I should have-"

Margaery's hand closed over her own. "Sansa," she murmured, and the other girl glanced up then, finally meeting Margaery's eyes.

What she saw there...confused her. Certainly there should be anger in Margaery's eyes, or disgust, or guilt, or something that resembled the upset that Sansa was expecting.

But there wasn't.

Instead there was something that Sansa didn't quite recognize, something that both excited and scared her.

And then Margaery was leaning forward, eyes closing as Sansa had imagined they would in her dreams, hand reaching out, closing over her own-

Margaery's lips were just as sweet as they had been with Joffrey watching, just as fat and wet and Sansa closed her eyes and leaned into the kiss, pressing her hand to the back of Margaery's head, pulling the other girl closer to her and reveling in the taste of Margaery, even as Margaery's lips opened and she found Margaery's teeth pressing against her mouth.

Sansa was not sure who had started the kiss, though she was vaguely certain that they both had moved forward together, only that she never wanted it to stop, as their tongues pressed together and she felt Margaery inside of her, heard the other girl moan into her mouth, felt Margaery's hands on her waist, travelling downward.

Felt wetness between her thighs.

Sansa pulled away suddenly, jumping to her feet.

Margaery, for her part, recovered rather quickly, opening her eyes and smoothing down the front of her dressing robe, not at all flushed as she sent Sansa a small, nervous smile.

"I should...Ishouldgo," Sansa gasped out, and then turned and ran, ignoring the Queen as she called out after her.

Chapter Text

She had thought that Margaery would do her the courtesy of leaving her to lick her wounds for a while, but evidently she could not be counted on for that.

Margaery, it seemed, had followed her directly from her chambers, and Sansa was at least relieved that Shae or Tyrion were not there to see this.

"Your Grace," she blinked, as Margaery stepped just inside the door before Sansa could close it, sticking her foot firmly in the doorway.

A part of Sansa was tempted to just close it anyway, to hurt her like she had hurt Sansa...

No. No, she couldn't think like that.

"Your Grace, I don't think that-"

"Is that to be my punishment, then?" Margaery asked, in a hoarse voice, and Sansa blinked at her. "Your calling me 'Your Grace,' once more?" She swallowed. "Then, I suppose I deserve far worse than that."

Sansa shook her head. "What? No, I-"

"I hurt you, Sansa, and I understand that it was horrible and unforgivable, in some ways," Margaery said quietly, and Sansa blinked at her, sighed, grabbed Margaery by the arm and pulled her into the room, shutting the door behind her.

Margaery raised a brow.

Sansa shook her head. "That's not...I'm not..."

She shook her head, wondered why she could barely speak. "I'm not angry with you," Sansa decided on at last. "It...hurt, what you did to me, knowing that it was you, but...I also know that was Joffrey's intention. I just...think I need more time."

Margaery nodded. "I understand. I...could use some time myself, to think." The way she said it had Sansa wondering what it was Margaery needed to think about, and she almost snapped something to that effect, before it suddenly dawned on her.

Margaery had beaten her because Sansa liked her. Because they were friends. Even Joffrey had noticed it. It could not have been easy, beating someone that she cared about, now that Margaery had demonstrated to her in recent months that she did indeed have a soul.

That didn't make her feel better, but it did help, Sansa supposed.

Margaery glanced around the room, clasping her hands in front of her. It suddenly occurred to Sansa that she seemed nervous, that there were few times that Sansa had ever seen Margaery nervous.

"Before I go," Margaery said suddenly, and Sansa hated herself for the way she turned to her like a loyal pup, "I understand that your…wounds from the other day would be difficult to explain to anyone who might see them, and I know intimately the pain they might cause. Let me help you,” Margaery said gently. “Please, Sansa.”

It was the ‘please’ that did it, in the end, though Sansa was beginning to understand that there was nothing she would deny Margaery.

And besides, someone needed to do it. Sansa did not know how much longer she could go on pretending that everything was all right to her husband. Or to Shae, who was much more suspicious.

Sansa nodded, walked over to the spot behind her dresser where she kept the salve, the salve which had been so difficult lately to easily apply, and brought it back, glanced nervously at Margaery.

"Where should I...?"

Margaery hesitated. "Wherever you'd like," she said finally, opening the salve and grimacing instantly at the smell before scooping up a bit of it onto her finger.

Sansa swallowed, moved over to the bed, lay flat on her back. She flushed a little as she felt the bed dip where Margaery sat on it beside her, and then some more when Margaery began peeling back her gown.

She supposed it was necessary, of course. To apply the salve.

"Is this all right?" Margaery asked gently, when the gown had been moved out of the way, leaving Sansa's back bare. Not as bare as it had been the other night, of course.

Sansa could only nod against the sheets, hope that Tyrion or Shae would not walk in to see the purpling bruises on her back.

Margaery let out a little sigh, and Sansa feared that she was going to apologize again, did not think she could bear listening to it. She turned her head slightly, glancing at Margaery.

"Please, just..."

Margaery seemed to understand, took up another dollop of salve and began softly rubbing the cold cream onto Sansa's back.

Sansa winced as she touched the first bruise, but then the cool stuff began to seep into her injuries, growing cold then hot then cold again, and she let out a little sigh of pleasure.

Margaery's hand froze.

"I am sorry if I distressed you earlier, Lady Sansa," Margaery spoke, and Sansa knew her enough now to recognize the hollowness in her voice, "It was not my intent. Perhaps I was out of turn-"

"You need not apologize to me, Your Grace," Sansa said quietly, lowering her eyes. "I...You did not distress me."

Margaery's eyes widened, and Sansa could see that she had truly surprised the other girl.

"Merely startled me, is all."

And then Margaery was moving forward, so close that Sansa could feel the folds of her silver gown brushing against Sansa's naked back. "I should not have taken advantage of the situation as I did. You are hurting, and I have only complicated matters between us with this."

Sansa swallowed hard, feeling a sudden heat in her cheeks. "They were merely...I mean, I've never-"

Margaery pulled back then, understanding filling her features. "Have you never thought about another that way?" At Sansa's undoubtedly blank expression when she turned her head, she clarified, "Sexually?"

The very word made Sansa blush from her roots.

She had, of course.

A growing girl could not live in Winterfell without something to occupy her thoughts beyond the songs and her sewing, and Theon Greyjoy, disgusting cad though she thought him now, had then been a charming romantic thing in her thoughts, handsome and whimsical in his sad tale of woe.

Like someone out of the songs.

But her thoughts then had been largely innocent, for her mother had explained little of these things to Sansa at the time; she had learned far more from Cersei, who was far more willing to share, even if only to humiliate her.

And then there had been Joffrey, the very thought now making her shudder.

From the moment he had stepped off his horse in Winterfell, she had believed herself in love with him, believed that she would be his queen and love every moment of it.

Those thoughts still made her flush now, when he ridiculed her and stripped her and had her beaten, when he threatened the most obscene things of her.

When he forced her to kiss Margaery for his pleasure.

She had not held a good track with those she thought of in this manner, and something about that made her fear thinking of anyone else in the same way.

She understood, too, that the feeling of wetness between her thighs meant that she was aroused; she had gained that education from Cersei, when the other woman had tormented her and told her that it was unlikely she would ever experience it, that, when she married Tyrion she would be dry as a bone and it would hurt when he-

But she had never thought of a woman in this way, before Margaery.

Margaery, who was unlike anyone she had ever met. Margaery, who was unfailingly kind, even when she was pretending not to be.

Sansa swallowed, and hoped Margaery misinterpreted the gesture. "I..."

Margaery seemed to take that for an answer. "Oh," she murmured. "I merely thought..." She shook her head. "It doesn't matter."

They fell into an awkward silence this time, waves away from the amicable silence they had been in before, while Margaery continued to clean her back.

And then, the salve applied, Margaery reached out and traced one of the bruise's edges, far enough away that it did not hurt, but Sansa stiffened all the same.

"Oh, Sansa..." she whispered, and Sansa turned her head, met the other girl's eyes.

Sansa looked away first. "It's no different than what you have," she said softly, unflinching.

Margaery's smile was pained. "It is kind of you to say so. I do not think that I could be so kind to my abuser."

Sansa flinched back. "You're not my...you didn't...Joffrey made you do that. It wasn't..." she swallowed hard, centered herself. "It wasn't your fault."

Margaery smiled wanly. “I don’t think we shall agree on that, Sansa."

"Why did you let him, then?" Sansa demanded, eyes filling as she pulled herself up into a sitting position, and she blinked them away angrily.

Margaery stared at her, looking surprised. "Sansa, I..."

"Why?" Sansa demanded, and then Margaery was speaking, a torrent of words that Sansa neither understood nor wanted to understand.

"I didn't want to," Margaery said quietly. "I looked at the way he was enjoying hurting you, and I wanted to kill him with my bare hands, the throne be damned. I hated him, in that moment. I hated him before, but I..."

"I don't understand," Sansa said finally, when she'd had the opportunity to mull that over in the silence following Margaery's proclamation. Margaery glanced down at her, and Sansa lifted her chin. "Why? He hurt you, too. Why would it take what happened to me to hate him?" She swallowed hard. "I hated him the moment he cut off my father's head."

Margaery swallowed, and this time, it was she who would not meet Sansa's eyes. "I don't know," she said finally, a vein throbbing on her neck. "The way I feel for you...I cannot explain it, and I can't explain it away. Believe me, I've tried over the months since we met. Is that enough?"

Sansa shook her head. "No, I can't. I can't tell anything about you, Margaery, half the time. I need-"

I need you to tell me.

The words hung in the air for a long moment, before Margaery sighed.

"I took sweetsleep, before Joffrey called me to his chambers. I...my moon's blood has affected me greatly, and a maester gave it to me. I could feel myself burning underneath my skin even as I smiled and felt too calm." She let out a ragged breath. "I felt like it was my back, every time I struck you. Saw the blood and the bruises and they were on my skin. I felt your pain, your screams echoing through my head, and it nearly killed me. I hated myself, in that moment, more than I hated Joffrey. I...And I could do nothing but smile and pretend that I enjoyed hurting the person whom I care about more than...more than..." She swallowed again, looked almost frustrated at her inability to articulate those words.

"Are those just words?" Sansa bit out bitterly. "Like the ones you say to Joffrey?"

Margaery's eyes widened. "Of course not," she murmured. "I...Sansa, you are very dear to me."

They sat in more silence, oppressive and cold like the salve on Sansa's back, before Margaery spoke again.

"I...can't control him," Margaery said softly. "I thought I could; it's why I allowed myself to be married to him in the first place. But...Every time I think I've got a handle on him, he...I don't."

Sansa bit her lip. "I'm sorry," she murmured, knowing that she herself could have been in this situation, had Margaery never arrived to take it from her.

"He...terrifies me," Margaery admitted, because she knew that Sansa would understand, and tell no one.

Sansa waited, not speaking, and Margaery was glad for that.

"But, mostly, he makes me terrified of whom I'm becoming," she whispered. "I have to play a role for him, every moment we're together. And...sometimes I worry that it's becoming more than just a role to play. Except..." she glanced up at Sansa. "You are the only one who still feels real."

Sansa swallowed. "I would like to kiss you," she said, unsure where the words came from, before leaning forward. The other girl nodded, eyes blown wide, and she leaned down, pressing their lips together gently.

Because she’d had a dream every night since...that night, and she needed to know for herself. For real.

The moment Margaery's lips touched hers, Sansa knew.

It didn't feel like the time they had kissed for Joffrey's amusement. She hadn't been sure earlier, when they had kissed and she had been confused, but she knew now, as clearly as if the gods themselves had come down to tell her exactly this.

It felt...different. Better, and suddenly Margaery was surging forward, pushing Sansa's back gently against the bed sheets and kissing her until she was breathless, panting into Margaery's mouth, feeling Margaery's tongue inside her own.

She winced a little as the salve on her back stuck to the sheets, but couldn't bring herself to care as Margaery lowered herself on top of her, kissed her until there was no air left in Sansa's lungs but she couldn't think of pulling away for even a second.

The moment was heady, and she felt a pleasant buzz entering her mind, her blood, streaming out into the rest of her body, and Sansa groaned loudly, arching herself up into Margaery as much as she could, until she didn't think they could be any closer, and she heard Margaery moan as well, not the fake moans she had given Joffrey nights ago, but something real, something that was just for Sansa.

It made Sansa wet between the thighs again, but this time, Sansa couldn't bring herself to care. Told herself to enjoy it, in fact, for a dozen feelings were exploding inside of her, things she had never felt for Theon, or Joffrey, or anyone.

Margaery's hand lowered from Sansa's cheek, skittered along her neck like the coolest of touches, making Sansa shiver, before stopping at the start of Sansa's gown, rolling the fabric between her fingers.

She pulled her lips away from Sansa then, ignoring Sansa's groan of disappointment, gestured to Sansa's gown with her other hand.

"May I...?" she asked quietly, and Sansa blinked at her, flushed and bemused and wondering why Margaery had pulled away. And then she understood the question, and blushed some more.

"Yes," she whispered, and Margaery smiled widely, bent down again, was kissing her again with ruthless abandon that had Sansa moaning and squirming and enjoying every moment of it, her lips swollen from where Margaery bit her, tongue pressing into Margaery's mouth, desperate.

She could hardly think of anything but this moment, the sweetness of Margaery's mouth against hers.

"Are you sure about this?" Margaery asked quietly, pulling at the strings in the front of Sansa's gown.

Sansa swallowed. "I..." She wasn't, of course. She wasn't sure about this, as she wasn't sure about anything, and she was more sure in this moment that she wanted Margaery than she was sure of anything.

Apparently, the pause was too long for Margaery, whose hand lowered to her side, and Sansa found herself instantly mourning the loss of the warm touch.

Sansa attempted to bring it back, but Margaery was stubborn at the best of times, and certainly now.

Margaery pulled back. “We are both hurting, after what happened,” she said gently, putting a finger to Sansa’s lips. “I want this, and you may think that you want this, but...I think that we should wait. That you should be sure. We both wanted to think about this earlier, and we should not let what we are feeling now come ahead of that.”

Breathless, Sansa knew that, were she in her right mind, she would agree.

Sansa Stark had not been in her right mind for some time.

“I don’t care,” she blurted out, and Margaery stared at her, eyes wide. “I don’t,” Sansa insisted. “Margaery, please.”

Margaery swallowed hard, shook her head. “I do,” she said gently, giving Sansa another kiss to the forehead. “Think about it. At least for a day.”

Sansa bit her lip. "All right," she murmured, and Margaery let out a groan.

"What is it?" Sansa asked her.

"It's what you should say, of course," Margaery told her, with a teasing little grin, "But I was rather hoping you wouldn't." She bent down, kissed Sansa chastely on the lips once more and reaching out to fix her hair, before making a graceful exit.

And not a moment too soon, for Shae entered just as she left, blinked at Sansa's rather haphazard appearance, but made no comment, merely smiled at her, clearly thinking that all they had done was patch up whatever had been between them.

Chapter Text

Margaery had been right when she told Sansa that they should take time to think. Sansa hadn't been able to stop thinking about the kiss since the moment Margaery had left their chambers and she'd been forced to invent some story for Shae that she didn't think the other woman had believed.

But she understood now why Margaery's words had been wise, why she should be glad that they had not...done anything more than what they had. She was still so very confused about her feelings for the other girl, still trapped between the understanding of what Margaery had done to her and her own understanding of her feelings for Margaery.

She didn't know if they had come of some twisted reasoning from what Joffrey had them do, didn't know if what she felt for Margaery was real or a figment of her trauma.

And yet.

Kissing Margaery had been wrong, and foolish, and...one of the best feelings Sansa had ever had.

"Are you all right, Sansa?" Prince Oberyn asked her, and Sansa froze.

They were taking a turn about the gardens, Oberyn regaling her with stories of how superior the water gardens of Dorne were to these, even if she was beginning to suspect she would never see them.

She had been listening, of course, and not thinking about the kisses that Margaery should never have allowed her to give the other girl, but now a more pressing concern hit her.

She had grown used to hiding her current condition from her lord husband, and she understood from Ellaria, and, indeed, from Prince Oberyn's own words, that Oberyn Martell was a bit of a hothead. She did not think that it would be any better to tell him what had occurred at Joffrey's orders.

And besides, she hated the thought of admitting it to anyone who did not already know. Margaery had helped with the salve, and her back buzzed pleasantly, so long as no one touched it. She'd squirmed away from Prince Oberyn placing his hand there earlier, and she had no doubt he'd noticed, but it was nice, to pretend that he hadn't.

Trust him to shatter that illusion, as he had shattered her illusion that she would be safe and far from King's Landing by now.

"Yes, of course," she told him quietly, shaking thoughts of Margaery from her mind. "I just...wish we were gone from this place, by now. Won't you tell me when we can leave? Surely your business is complete."

Oberyn grimaced. "I wish that it was, believe me. I have no wish to remain in this lions' den any longer than you do."

"Then why are we still here?" she asked him, tilting her chin up and meeting his eyes.

And, for the first time, Oberyn gave her an honest answer, one she almost believed, after a long, hesitant pause.

"I have finished my merchant business, it is true, and achieved a permanent spot on the Small Council, which I will be able to maintain from Dorne. But I have other business that needs completing, for my sister's sake."

"Your sister?" Sansa echoed, her brows furrowing.

He gave her a suddenly intense look; it reminded her a bit of the way Margaery had looked at her, the night before, when they were-

"The Mountain still remains in King's Landing," Oberyn told her bluntly. "Tywin Lannister knows of my desire to face the beast in honest combat, but is denying me. However, I have plots to punish him, as well, plots that my brother and I have carefully laid out in preparation of a long game. When we depart for Dorne, Lady Sansa, we may have to go about it...quickly, however weak King's Landing will be when we do so."

"You're planning to murder them?" Sansa asked in surprise, leaning forward as she hissed out the words.

Oberyn gave her a somewhat annoyed look. "I plan to seek justice for my beloved sister's death, and I would be here to see the fruits of my labor through. Surely you would not deny me that."

The accusation in his tone burned, and Sansa flushed, for of course she could not claim such a thing. She still wanted to see Joffrey's head on a pike, as her father's now was, still wanted to have her own justice for the deaths of her mother and brother and the goodsister she had never met, so of course she understood.

"You'll never be able to defeat the Mountain in open combat," Sansa said suddenly, fearfully, remembering the one time she had seen the giant nearly kill Ser Loras.

Oberyn grinned at her. "I think you underestimate me, my lady."

Sansa bit her lip. "I wish you hadn't told me," she confessed suddenly, and he blinked at her.

"You wished to know," he said finally, gently, "And I believe that you should know. Ellaria has wished that I keep my intent from you, as it worries her as much as I think you are now worried, but our plan to take you from this place is not without risk, Lady Sansa, and you should know the risks you are facing."

Sansa blinked at him. "I don't want to face them."

He nodded, his expression somehow gentler still. "Few do," he said quietly. "But your leaving King's Landing and the Lannisters' captivity was a venture that was never going to be without risk, Lady Sansa."

Risk. The word had her thinking about the look Shae had given her when she'd entered Lord Tyrion's chambers after Margaery's exit.

What had she been thinking?

Margaery had beaten her, Joffrey's orders or not. She had hurt her, had forced those kisses upon her not for Sansa's pleasure but for Joffrey's, and had laughed about it with Joffrey while she did it, had slept with him afterward.

And, if Prince Oberyn's plan came to fruition, it might just find more victims than the Lannisters. Margaery was the wife of the worst of the Lannisters, after all.

And yet, Sansa found herself thinking back on all of their interactions since Margaery had come to King's Landing. The gentle touches, the reassuring words, those more on Margaery's side than her own. All the times Margaery had looked at her and Sansa had known what she wanted yet hadn't. All the times Sansa had wanted more and didn't know how to express it.

Once, Sansa had clung to Margaery and her family as closely as they clung to her because she believed that they could offer her protection from the very Lannisters Oberyn seemed intent to punish.

And the things she had felt for Margaery; they were nothing like what she had once felt for Jeyne, she could see that now easily enough.

She had not been so angry with Margaery when she saw her safe in Joffrey's arms in the early days of Margaery's marriage because she felt Margaery had betrayed their friendship. Rather, because she had been jealous, and not of Margaery.

It had taken her a while to realize that, of course. In fact, she did not think she had even understood it when she had kissed Margaery just the other day, not even later, after Margaery had bade her think about what she was doing, and she had seen Joffrey pull Margaery close in front of the entire court and kissed her, and she had remembered her jealousies at the beginning of that marriage.

Remembered how it had burned, to watch Margaery kiss another. Kiss Joffrey.

She knew now that Margaery could not always protect her, that sometimes, that lack of protection would get Sansa hurt, as had been so amply demonstrated the night before, but she thought she could probably bear that, with Margaery by her side.

Because no one could, and Sansa didn't want Margaery to protect her if that was all their friendship meant. She didn't want Margaery because she could protect her. She wanted Margaery because she was beautiful, and kind, and she made Sansa forget, sometimes, that she was even in King's Landing, a captive of the Lannisters. Forget that there was anyone else but Margaery.

Sansa wanted Margaery because she wanted her.

The realization made Sansa stumble a step, and Prince Oberyn reached out to grab her arm, looked more than concerned when she flinched away and almost landed headfirst in the grass.

"Lady Sansa?" he asked gently, face the picture of concern, and Sansa wondered how much of it was real, how much of it simply belonged to the vestiges of his poor sister.

"Is there...Is there something you need me to do?" she asked quietly, out of the corner of her mouth, lest anyone overhear it.

Prince Oberyn studied her silently for a moment, before his lips quirked into a small grin. "Just be ready, Lady Sansa Stark," he told her, but Sansa was no longer sure she would be able to manage even that.

Chapter Text

"There is a...troubling matter to be brought to Your Grace's attention," Lord Varys said, glancing openly at Margaery while he spoke, though no one at the table besides perhaps Lord Tyrion seemed to notice.

She was the one dragging Joffrey to these meetings of the Small Council, after all, and so Margaery lifted her chin in acknowledgement even as Joffrey asked, "What is it?" with too much enthusiasm.

Perhaps he thought Stannis Baratheon would attack them again, and he would have the opportunity to show his mettle before his lady.

Lord Varys took a deep breath. "There is a...group, a small, religious sect, which is gaining popularity within the city. They claim to worship the Seven, and give out food and shelter to the poorest of the poor."

Joffrey deflated and flicked a nail, clearly bored once more. "So?"

Margaery wondered if this sect explained the strange men she had seen during her outing with Sansa, the ones with circles burned into their foreheads whose eyes she had felt watching her so intently.

Lord Varys looked like he was trying very hard to keep his patience. "Your Grace, a group of smallfolk attempted another riot yesterday. It was the largest riot that has taken place since your trip to Flea Bottom, and it took over two dozen knights to eventually suppress it."

Joffrey still didn't look impressed; in fact, Margaery would wager that the look of annoyance on his face was due to the reminder in front of Margaery of that riot.

"We believe that it is in the best interests of the Crown to show the smallfolk that they are still in our interests, before this sect becomes any more popular without us knowing who they are-" Lord Tyrion began, but Joffrey interrupted before he could say more.

"Do we, Uncle?" He crossed his arms. "Then maybe the Master of Coin should deal with this, and let his King deal with more important matters."

"If the Crown were to show their benevolence through-"

"Does your wife think I'm benevolent, Uncle?" Joffrey interrupted again, smirking, and Margaery resisted the urge to grit her teeth. "I bet she does. I was kind enough not to bring Robb Stark's head here and give it to her as a present, like you wanted. Did you tell her that? I think she ought to know."

Lord Tyrion, however, made no secret of the way he was grinding his. "If the Crown-"

"I don't think you tell her anything," Joffrey went on with a little grin. "I think you don't care about her at all. That's why you haven't bed her yet, despite Grandfather telling you to."

An awkward silence settled around the table; Oberyn Martell looked oddly bemused and amused at the same time, and Margaery's own father was tapping out an awkward rhythm against the table, clearly uncomfortable.

She herself was only here because Joffrey had made a fuss when the meeting was called and declared he wouldn't go at all if his lady could not, simply so that he could grope her under the table as he sat and listened to his Small Council drone on.

Tywin Lannister finally achieved an annoyed sigh, glaring at Lord Tyrion as though Joffrey's insolence were somehow his fault. "What your uncle does with his wife in the privacy of their marriage does not concern you, Your Grace."

Joffrey snorted. "I'm their king. And she was almost married to me, once. I feel a certain measure of...protection, over her."

Margaery thought of Sansa's beaten back, the beating Joffrey had ordered she give the other girl, and didn't snort at his words.

Tywin didn't bother to dignify that with a response. "What your uncle is trying to say is that the Small Council feels the King should be present when we give gifts of food and help to the smallfolk, to show your goodwill toward them," he gritted out.

"But why does it matter so much?" Joffrey whined, an air of petulance entering his voice, and Margaery bit back a sigh.

Margaery did, in fact, understand the tactical advantage of gaining the love of the smallfolk.

They far outnumbered the noble Houses of King's Landing, just as they had in Highgarden, and she had seen the fear in Cersei's eyes as she had spoken of the riot in Flea Bottom, even if Joffrey had refused to act afraid in front of the lady he was attempting to impress.

But the reasons she had given Joffrey were not the reasons that she often found herself walking through the scummy water and muddy paths of Flea Bottom, handing out food and any help that she could give to those less fortunate than she.

She knew that Cersei thought it was an act, that her acts of kindness toward the smallfolk were viewed with disdain in the older woman's eyes, and she knew why.

But the truth was simple enough; she did feel compassion for those people, who lived a life that Margaery could never hope to understand, one full of pain and misery of a far different kind than any of the fighting noble Houses could understand, no matter their own battles. And she wanted to help them, not for the reputation that doing so would give her, but because they needed it, and she could most certainly provide it.

"There are thousands of smallfolk living in Flea Bottom," she said, smiling gently and reaching out to put a hand over his. "While there are not nearly so many of us living in the palace. I have always found it prudent to befriend them, rather than antagonize or ignore them. It leaves them feeling...compassionate towards us."

"I don't need their compassion," Joffrey sneered the word. "I am their King. I demand their fear."

Margaery smiled, clasping her hands together. "Of course not, my love. You need for nothing, as the King. But it is better to have their compassion than their hatred. Then, should we ever have need of them, they will be more willing to comply. And there will be no more riots in the streets."

He sighed. "Or we could just have my Kingsguard fight them, as they did then."

Margaery lifted a brow. "But why do so, when this is so much easier? Forgive me, my love, for I am merely a woman and do not always understand the intricacies of politics, but, as a woman, I prefer to keep any violence contained to the sort that one knows that they can always win."

Joffrey looked at her, and then his face split into a wide grin, and he pulled her close. "Speaking of, I have a surprise for you, my lady."

Margaery forced a grin, pretending that she enjoyed any of Joffrey's surprises. "When?" she whispered, voice filled with excitement.

Lord Tywin cleared his throat. "If Your Grace could stay on topic-"

"I don't want to!" Joffrey snapped, and then seemed to remember who he was speaking to and how well it had gone the last time, paling a bit. He stood up, "Margaery can do it. The people love her, anyway. They won't care that I'm not there. This is...woman's work. I have more important things to do."

Margaery smiled up at him. "Of course, my love. I would cherish the opportunity to show my love for the smallfolk, and to give them anything the Small Council deems appropriate."

Joffrey gestured toward her. "Well then, it's figured out." He grabbed Margaery by the arm, yanking her out of her seat. "Come on, I want to show it to you."

Margaery cast an almost apologetic look toward the Small Council, before allowing Joffrey to drag her away to show her whatever new contraption he'd no doubt had made. Perhaps another crossbow.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t a crossbow, though. Instead, it was some sort of catapult, but one that shot multiple times when it was prepared, and Margaery found the device more fascinating than she cared to admit.

Joffrey was a sadistic menace, but he could be smart, when he wanted to be. If only he was a weapons designer, rather than a king.

"How far can it shoot?" she found herself asking Joffrey out of pure curiosity, and she wondered if her husband noticed the difference as he moved in front of it, gesturing wildly off of the walls of the Keep.

The wind coming in from the sea was flapping Margaery's gown about her legs as the Lannister flags around them, but she knew exactly why Joffrey had insisted on showing the strange new catapult to her up here.

He wanted to try it out.

"It should be able to shoot all of the way across an enemy's lines, farther than a catapult," he told her excitedly. "The next time Stannis Baratheon is foolish enough to attack my capitol, it won't be wildfire that kills him."

Margaery beamed. "How wonderful. You are...so smart, to have invented such a thing yourself."

Joffrey grinned back at her. "Do you want to try it?"

Margaery smirked. "I thought you'd never ask, my love. There is...nothing more that I would like to do in this moment."

She wondered if her conversation with Joffrey about one day going into battle with him had sparked this invention, if he had made this strange device just for her, and Margaery pretended that she didn't feel a slight high at the thought.

Joffrey guided her hand to the lever on the odd catapult, his other hand lowering to her back, pressing against it almost gently, but the action had her thinking of how he had asked her to beat Sansa, how he had thought she would enjoy it as much as he did, and her good humor faded.

"Just here," Joffrey told her, with a wicked little grin that set Margaery on edge.

She moved her hand where he told her to, pretended not to feel trepidation when he stepped back and told her to pull the lever toward herself.

The moment she did, three sturdy, thicker than normal arrows flew out in rapid succession, soaring above the ramparts and out into the Bay, the arrows suddenly expanding in the air before something shot out of each of them, flying even farther and faster.

Margaery glanced back at Joffrey in bemusement. He grinned at her.

"Catapults," he told her, and Margaery glanced back at the arrows, watched as the strange rocks flew out of them and began to descend toward the water, watched as they exploded in the air in large balls of fire before slamming into the water a good distance away with all of the force of something twice their size. Margaery was relieved that they didn't hit any of the ships, much as she would have loved to see the impact these fire balls would make.

Joffrey was behind her then, pressing into her back, one arm around her waist, pulling her against him, and she could feel the hardness of his excitement against her spine.

"Do you like it?" he whispered. "They still need some work, of course, but they're better than the wildfire my uncle used during the Battle of Blackwater. And with a dozen of these, we could wipe out any army that dares come near us."

Margaery turned to face him as the balls disappeared into the water, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close and pretended the action didn't sicken her.

"I love it, Your Grace," she told him quietly. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You should have the metal workers build a thousand of these, and then we would never face another army that dared attack us."

It was the right thing to say; Joffrey's eyes flashed with mirth at the idea, and then he was kissing her, hard enough that when he pulled away, her lips began to well with blood.

He wasn't getting off on that, though, she knew now.

"I should," he told her, with a little grin. "And make the distance longer, too. Then I could blow up that dragon bitch when she finally crosses the sea, and any of those stupid peasants who think they can riot in my streets."

Margaery chuckled. "Do you think that, next time, I could watch you make them?" she asked him suddenly. "Only...I think it would be rather fun."

Joffrey looked as though she had just handed him Daenerys Targaryen's head on a silver platter. "Yes," he rasped, and Margaery bit back the larger smile she wanted to give herself at her victory.

Even if, as she had told Sansa, she was still having a harder time of keeping control of her husband now that she finally understood him, she could still play him.

The time she spent with Joffrey scared her, perhaps more than it would have scared sweet Sansa, or some other bride, because, more often than not, she found herself less bothered than she knew she should have been by Joffrey's antics. Found herself hypnotized by his cruelty. And the lies that she told him because she knew that they would bring him closer to her...were sounding less and less like lies, in her heart of hearts.

It had been five days since Joffrey had called Sansa to their chambers because Margaery had told him she was having her moon's blood. Three days since Sansa had, surprising Margaery totally, kissed her, eight days since her miscarriage.

She swallowed hard, felt her hand move down to her stomach despite herself. She still felt pain, from the miscarriage, not the sort of pain that a mother might have felt at losing her child, but real, throbbing pain that was beginning to worry her, and Elinor, the only other person who knew anything about it.

She knew that the pain would fade, eventually, so long as she continued to take it easy, but Joffrey would not be held off forever, because, as much as sex seemed to repulse him when it was anyone else, he loved Margaery.

The thought was still much of a novelty, still disturbed her, because she knew that she was good at playing him, but she could not fathom this little monster's ardent love for her, despite that.

And she feared that, if she held him off for too much longer, he would send for Sansa again, and this time, he would not just beat her.

Fortunately, Joffrey didn't seem to be thinking of sex, just now. "Maybe we could try one on my uncle, the next time he keeps us late in an inane meeting of the Small Council."

Margaery pretended she found that idea hilarious, and then bid her husband happy playing with his new toy, in far different terms, before rushing away as quickly as she could.

She was bleeding between her thighs again by the time she found Sansa Stark in the chambers she shared with Lord Tyrion, and Margaery ripped a piece of her gown off to stuff it into her smallclothes before she knocked on the door. She wished it wasn't taking her so long to heal from the miscarriage. Wished, because she would rather be plotting up far less innocent things to do to Sansa than simply kissing her.

Sansa opened it, her expression wan until she met Margaery's eyes.

"May I...come in?" Margaery asked, feeling hesitant. It was a strange feeling, for her, and one that she did not like at all.

She wanted to apologize some more, one thousand times for the horrors she had inflicted upon Sansa's body without once thinking of a way to get the other girl out of them, but she knew that Sansa would only hush her again, as she had last time.

Though, if she did it in the same way she had then, Margaery might even enjoy it.

"Where is Lord Tyrion? Or your...maid, that woman, Shae?" Margaery asked, looking around Lord Tyrion's surprisingly sparse chambers. She'd not noticed that, before. Perhaps the rumors were true, about how much the Lannisters hated their dwarf son.

Sansa shrugged. "Lord Tyrion is counting money for the Crown again, I suppose," she said, looking just as nervous as Margaery felt. "And Shae had some sort of business to deal with. She wouldn't tell me what."

Margaery nodded, and then went for the throat.

"Do you still feel the way you did, when you told me that you wanted space to think?" Margaery asked quietly, crossing her arms in front of her chest and nervously rubbing at her arms.

She seemed unable to stop moving her arms, lately.

"I understand that the discussion we'd had prior to...what happened between us was fraught with emotion, and what we did was an emotional response to it, and that I hurt you terribly and I should probably give you more time to think, but...I don't think it was just that, on my part, and if you feel the same..." Sansa stared at her blankly, and Margaery bit her lip. "Perhaps I should just go."

Sansa glanced up, eyes going wide like a frightened deer. She glanced around, as if worried that someone would come out and question them, but Margaery knew enough about the way King's Landing worked now to know that no one would.

"I...Yes," Sansa said finally, after a deep breath. "I...do. And I don't need more time to think about it."

Margaery paused. "Are you certain?"

Sansa blinked. "Yes. Margaery, I've thought about it quite a bit, and I don't know if this is because of what happened with Joffrey, or if it's something else, but I don't want to think about it anymore."

That was all the answer Margaery needed.

Her legs moved forward of their own accord, until suddenly Margaery was standing directly in front of Sansa, reaching a hand that was far too hesitant for her own tastes out to brush the hair from Sansa's face, pressed her hand to Sansa's cheek.

Sansa tilted her head toward Margaery's hand, pressed her cheek into Margaery's palm, and Margaery let out a slow breath, let her thumb graze Sansa's lips, pulling them gently apart.

Margaery's eyes flicked down to follow the movement, and she swallowed convulsively, flicked her eyes up to meet Sansa's again before she bent forward to kiss Sansa's trembling lips.

Sansa melted into the first touch, her body leaning into Margaery's, hands reaching out to fumble with Margaery's gown, as if she did not quite know where to reach.

Sansa's kiss was clumsy and hesitant, as it had been the last and first time Margaery had kissed her, and Margaery tilted her head, smiled into the kiss, reached out with her free hand and wrapped an arm around Sansa's waist, pulled the other girl flush against her, deepened the kiss until she could feel Sansa's chest stuttering for breath against her, pulled back.

"Is this all right?" Margaery asked, looking Sansa over. She was flushed, the pretty kind of flushed that made something pleasant twirl in Margaery's stomach, a little sweaty, but she smelled of lemon cakes, so Margaery could hardly be moved to mind.

The other girl nodded, breathlessly. "Margaery," she whispered, and her voice came out like a desperate whine.

"Tell me to stop, Sansa," Margaery whispered insistently against her skin, waited a few breaths, and then kissed her again, hands roaming to the edges of Sansa's gown, pulling it off of her shoulders.

Sansa shook her head. "Don't stop," she murmured, throwing her head back and exposing her neck.

Margaery wondered at Sansa's earlier words for a moment, wondered if they were only doing this because of what Joffrey had forced them to do, but then she saw Sansa's bare shoulder and she couldn't quite restrain herself from kissing up and down the other girl's skin until she had Sansa moaning beneath her.

And when she sucked at that pale skin and Sansa's breath stuttered, her eyes blown wide, Margaery remembered that she'd wanted Sansa Stark from the moment she'd first laid eyes on her standing on that little dock by the sea, so alone and solitary that Margaery could not stay away.

Sansa's hands seemed to understand their purpose now, and Margaery bit back a small chuckle as one reached out to trace down her clothed spine, even as her lips reached Sansa's neck and she sucked at the soft, exposed skin there until Sansa let out a noise that she doubted Sansa would have liked anyone else to hear.

Sweet gods, Sansa tasted divine; just as Margaery had always imagined her, without the impediment of Joffrey looking on and getting off on the shock and horror Sansa was feeling. Like lemon cakes and spice, and just a bit of snow.

Joffrey'd been wrong about that, Margaery thought with a small frown, licking the vein on Sansa's neck again when she noticed the absolutely sinful way the other girl shuddered at the sensation.

"Sweet gods, Sansa," Margaery whispered, feeling herself growing wet already. She could not remember the last time she'd gotten wet with so little foreplay beforehand.

She was almost afraid to know what that meant.

Sansa bent forward, captured Margaery's lips once more, pulled on Margaery's gown until they were pressed together once more, and Margaery could feel Sansa's nipples hardening through the thin gown she wore, warm and firm and so close to her own body.

Her own hardened in response, and Margaery let out a small groan of pleasure as Sansa's lips parted and let Margaery in. Margaery needed no more encouragement, deepening their kiss and moaning at the sound of Sansa's own moan.

Their teeth clicked together as Sansa opened her mouth wider, and Margaery pushed forward, wanting nothing more than to make Sansa come in this moment-

And then there was a knock at the door, and Sansa was scrambling away from her, blushing furiously as she yanked her gown back into its proper place, fluffed her hair awkwardly.

Margaery smiled and straightened her own gown, licked her thumb and patted Sansa's hair back into place.

Sansa watched the movement with transfixed eyes, blushing as the knock came again.

"Lady Sansa?" Prince Oberyn's unmistakable voice came from the other side, and Margaery's eyes narrowed.

Unmistakable because she would never forget that voice, never forget the harm that man had caused to her family, and she glanced back at Sansa, forced her eyes to soften when she met the other girl's gaze.

"You were expecting him?" she whispered, and Sansa shrugged, looking incredibly nervous at their almost-discovery.

No doubt, Oberyn Martell would have enjoyed entering in on the fun, Margaery thought bitterly, though she would never have given him the satisfaction.

She smoothed down her dress once more, smiled at Sansa again. "I should go, then. Can I..." she bit her lip, suddenly very nervous. "See you again. Soon, I mean?"

Sansa nodded a little too enthusiastically, and then Margaery moved to open the door, giving Prince Oberyn a frosty glare and no greeting as she swept imperiously past him.

Come to think of it, she'd not had a letter from Willas, lately. Perhaps she would go and compose one, and not think of Sansa, flushed and exposed before her. Or of whatever business she had with the Viper.

Chapter Text

"How bad are they really, the riots?" Margaery asked Varys.

It was difficult enough to find herself something to occupy her mind with, in the hours since leaving Sansa's chambers, letting the Dornish Prince usurp her place in Sansa's rooms. Difficult enough not to think of Sansa's lips, pressed against her own, Sansa's heated body, flush against her own...

She had sought out the Spider when she realized she had been talking to her ladies for a full hour and still didn't know what they were discussing. She wasn't normally like this, and it almost infuriated her.

Except that the sudden condition had been caused by Sansa, and that made her lapse in control all right.

The Spider had proven good enough of a distraction, anyway. When she asked him if she might have a word, claiming it concerned her suspicion in one of her ladies, he had insisted they each come separately to the strange corridor they had met in last time.

She wondered if Cersei and Jaime Lannister had ever come here, to fuck in the dark where they would not be found.

She wondered what it would be like to fuck Sansa Stark against one of these shadowed walls, watch her writhe and beg-

Varys cleared his throat, and Margaery bit back a sigh, for the last thing she wanted was for Varys to think her nothing more than an airheaded girl, when she had worked so hard in the shadows to convince him otherwise. When she needed his whispers.

She knew that he disliked the flagrantly abusive rule that the Lannisters had conducted so far, from his quickness in coming to the side of the Tyrells, from his constantly annoyed looks when she came to the meetings of the Small Council, liberal as they were, and her grandmother had told her that he had been a firm supporter of the Targaryens when they yet remained in Westeros, but while Lord Varys' information was often quite helpful, she was not certain how much she should trust him.

She still did not quite understand his motivations in reaching out to her, but rather suspected that they did not wholly align with her own. That, did she learn them, she would have to end their strange alliance, an alliance her grandmother had encouraged ever since the Tyrells had arrived in King's Landing.

Still, in this instance, she doubted that he would prove untrustworthy. Like her, he wanted what was best for the people of King's Landing, even if she was unsure what that meant.

"Your Grace-"

"You would not have suggested that Joffrey himself go out and deliver this food, under heavy guard, I imagine, and had Tywin Lannister agree with you unless the situation was dire," she interrupted him smoothly. "There is no need to pretend less."

The riot in Flea Bottom, before Margaery had even arrived in King's Landing, only went to prove how much the common people hated Joffrey Baratheon, much as they liked Margaery well enough. If the Small Council thought it would be a good idea to send him out amongst the smallfolk, it was either because they wanted him dead or they thought the sight of him passing out food alongside Margaery was the only thing to stop these riots, now.

And Margaery knew that, while everyone in King's Landing would have liked to see Joffrey dead, no one on the Small Council would allow that to happen, not just yet.

The Spider folded his hands together in front of himself. He had the most peculiar aura about him, constantly calm, always assessing. Her grandmother had called him one of the oddest little men she had ever encountered, useful though.

Loras had joked obscenely to Margaery that this was because he had no cock, and Margaery had thrown a pillow at him, back when they were still speaking to one another civilly.

Gods, she missed her brother. Missed his laughter, his teasing, his obscene jokes that she secretly found amusing as well.

But Loras was only a shell of himself now, fulfilling his duty in the Kingsguard with an obsessive dedication, keeping a formal distance from Margaery as any of the Kingsguard did now, as if they had not been the closest of siblings before. Fucking that Olyvar as if he were Renly.

She shook her head, and Varys seemed to take this as an indication of her impatience.

"The riot I mentioned to His Grace was not the first riot to plague Flea Bottom in the recent months," Varys said in his quiet, raspy voice. "This group - the Sparrows, they call themselves - is a finicky bunch, and believes that no one should need wealth. My own little sparrows have informed me that this broad statement includes the Crown."

Margaery bit the inside of her cheek. Fanatics. Wonderful. Joffrey would hardly be the soothing balm they needed, though, so she supposed it was a good thing that he was not being sent to face them, much as her father had waxed on about what he thought of that idea.

"Are they inciting the people to riot?"

Varys hesitated, and Margaery turned to face him. "It is unclear, my lady. They...preach peace, but their...penance for breaking the laws against the gods are...quite harsh."

Margaery wasn't sure she wanted to know what that meant. "And I would be safe, travelling amongst such people to deliver food to the peasants?"

That was what she really needed to know, of course. What only Varys would tell her.

Varys smiled. "Of course, Your Grace. If you sent Tyrell guards to accompany you."

Margaery sucked in a breath. "The situation has escalated that far?" she demanded. She often took her Kingsguard along with her to visit the people, but if the Spider was telling her to bring her Tyrell bannermen instead, then things truly were dire.

He shook his head. "Indeed, not, but I believe that the reminder that you are but a queen, subject as they all are to the whims of your king, will help to smooth things over better than if you were accompanied by Lannister guards or white cloaks."

Margaery nodded. "And have your sparrows told you anything of the Reach?" she asked, changing the subject abruptly and causing Varys to lift a brow.

"Precious little," Varys told her with a thin smile. "Cersei Lannister hasn't done anything worthy of her reputation, but the people of Reach have yet to meet their newest lady."

Holing herself away in her chambers, throwing tantrums. Margaery had expected more of her, but she was not displeased to be proven wrong by the other woman.

"She's Cersei Tyrell, now," Margaery pointed out, and Lord Varys chuckled.

"That woman will always believe herself a queen, no matter who she weds," he told her, and Margaery nodded, sighing.

"I suppose so. If you hear anything..."

"Of course, Your Grace," Varys bowed his head to her. "You will be the first to know, whether or here or in the Small Council"

Margaery raised a brow. "I hardly believe that, but your information will be most appreciated. My brother is most dear to me; I would hate for anything to happen to him because of her."

Chapter Text

She had not managed to stop thinking about that kiss since Margaery had given it to her, since Oberyn had walked into the room and wisely said nothing about their disheveled appearances, and Sansa knew that it would drive her mad unless she did something about it, and soon.

And that was how she had found herself outside of Margaery's chambers not two nights later, hesitantly standing before the door and willing herself to knock. She had just come from Joffrey, who had smiled at her as he used to before she realized he was a beast, and asked her how her day had gone as if he actually cared, and suggested that sometime, she go hunting with him and Margaery.

She had barely kept from being sick all over his riding boots.

She knew she shouldn’t be here. That...whatever it was that was between them was dangerous and wrong and that if they prolonged it, someone would find out. Maybe even Joffrey.

And yet.

The door to Margaery’s chambers had opened before Sansa could quite bring herself to knock, and Lady Elinor was staring out at her, a small smile on her face.

“Lady Sansa,” she said, dipping into a small curtsey that didn’t quite befit Sansa’s station. “Do you need something?”

It was on the tip of Sansa’s tongue to say that she needed Margaery, but she found herself whispering out hesitantly, “I was just...I mean...Oh, it’s quite silly, really...”

Elinor was watching her performance with what could only be described as growing amusement. When Sansa’s stutters trailed off, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and called in quite an unladylike manner, “Your Grace! You have a visitor!”

Sansa blushed crimson as Elinor opened the door wider and beckoned Sansa further into the room, but she supposed that it would look silly now, not to come in after that announcement of her presence.

She stepped into Margaery’s chambers on nimble feet, feeling strangely unwelcome there after what had passed between them despite the many times she had come here before.

Margaery was standing in the corner of the room, behind a tall, almost sheer screen, her ladies flitting about her with strips of cloth in their hands, their expressions almost frantic.

The screen was sheer enough for Sansa to see that Margaery was naked behind it, and she blushed again, casting her eyes in every direction but that one even as Margaery lifted her head above the screen and presented Sansa with a wide smile.

“Sansa!” she called happily, as yet another of her ladies ducked behind the screen with a scrap of green cloth in their hands. “I didn’t know you were coming to visit. What a lovely surprise.”

And she truly looked as though she thought it was one, Sansa couldn’t help but notice, the smile in her eyes like those reserved only for Sansa, so far as she had ever seen.

“Your Grace-” One of Margaery’s ladies called in a voice that was almost impatient, and Margaery let out a breathy laugh, ducking behind the screen once more.

“I’ll be just a moment,” she called from behind it, as Elinor led Sansa over to the chaise in the corner of Margaery’s warm, once inviting chambers and bade her sit on it, asked if she wanted for any refreshments, letting out an almost displeased noise when Sansa shook her head.

Sansa blinked at that, but already Elinor was skittering away, and she lost her chance.

“I could come back...” she said, still hesitant to look toward that screen for all that she had already seen Margaery without her clothes, in Joffrey’s chambers. Somehow, it seemed wrong, to peek at her now.

“Oh, no!” Margaery cried out, sounding almost despondent at the very idea. “Stay. I insist. They are almost done, anyway.”

Elinor let out a snort. “They are hardly that, my lady,” she told Sansa, “But Margaery is like to make them stop soon, anyway. She can never stand still when they’re poking her all with needles.”

“And can you blame me?” Margaery giggled. “Joffrey has commissioned me a new gown to wear, for our next hunting trip. Lannister red and Tyrell green, as if the first hare we come across won’t see us coming from the edge of the Kingswood. Perhaps he thinks they will mistake me for a holly berry, and come to eat me rather than turning the other way and running.”

Sansa bit back a smile, at those words. “Green will help you to blend in, Your Grace,” she said finally, and there was silence for a moment, from behind the screen, save for the odd noise of fabric sliding against fabric and someone cursing as they were no doubt jabbed with a needle.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t have refreshment?” Elinor asked Sansa again, sounding almost nervous, but then Margaery was moving out from behind the screen, hastily pulling on a green silk robe that was almost as sheer as the screen had been a moment before. She looped the ties of it shut and smiled again at Sansa, but not before Sansa caught a swathe of creamy skin that had her mouth watering.

“I think that’s enough standing about for a dress for now, ladies,” Margaery was telling her ladies, despite their protestations. “Joffrey doesn’t want to hunt for another week, anyway; he thinks me very ill, and so of course he is staying far clear of me.”

Her ladies laughed at that, even if Sansa could not quite believe the scandal of the words, or that Margaery had felt so free to say them, even if they were true.

She could remember when she had been sick with a fever before the Battle of Blackwater, when she was still Joffrey’s lady and he still sometimes pretended to care for her, how it had kept her free from a beating for that week, for all that it had not helped her after it was gone.

“Away with you all, now,” Margaery crowed, sinking into the loveseat directly across from Sansa, and crossing her legs overtop one another. “I am sure Lady Sansa didn’t come here to talk about my dress.”

From the spark in her eyes, Sansa thought that perhaps the other girl knew exactly what she had come there to speak of, and she found herself blushing again.

Margaery’s ladies sidled out of a side door, Elinor somehow the last to go, sliding the door shut behind her with a conspiratorial little smirk, and Sansa found herself wondering if the other girl knew.

The thought, surprisingly enough, was not an altogether unpleasant one. In some ways, yes, but not all.

“So.” Margaery unfolded her legs again, just enough for Sansa to find herself reacquainted with the fact that Margaery wore no smallclothes underneath her robe. She licked her lips, lifted her head to see Margaery grinning impishly at her.

"Did you have some reason for coming to visit?" she asked teasingly, and Sansa flushed, realized she'd entirely forgotten why she'd walked into this room.

And then she remembered, and found herself blushing far more.

“I take it then, that your mind is still the same on this matter?” Margaery asked, her face suddenly very serious, and it took Sansa a moment to remember what she was talking about.

“Oh!” she said, when it came to her, and Sansa found herself wondering why they were rehashing this conversation, when she wanted nothing more than to get on with what they had been doing the other day. “Yes. Yes, it is. I think. I just...”

Margaery leaned forward, eyes full of curiosity rather than concern. "Yes?"

Sansa was finding it hard to think. Her lips were dry, and she licked at them nervously. "I have never really heard of two women...doing what we want to," she confessed finally, and Margaery laughed.

"Haven't you?" she asked with a coy smile. "I do not believe that the gods frown upon it, for what two women do in the privacy of their own chambers is their own concern, unless a man be able to watch it."

Sansa swallowed, thought of Joffrey, and then of some other man, some man who wasn't as vile as Joffrey, watching her and Margaery, just watching, not forcing them to hurt each other.

She found that the idea was not entirely as repulsive as Margaery's tone had made it sound.

So long as it wasn't Joffrey.

And then she shook that thought from her mind, because that wasn't what she was here about.

"But...well, you're married," Sansa finally blurted out, and Margaery smirked at her, leaned forward.

"Do you think the gods mind if I find pleasure outside of a creature such as Joffrey?" she asked with sudden intensity. "No doubt that is why they made him, so that I might not feel the guilt of it." She leaned back. "And besides, he likely would just laugh."

He would, Sansa knew, and that served to assuage any guilt she might have felt anyway, for who cared what Joffrey Baratheon thought, who cared if this went against his very marriage to Margaery?

Certainly not Margaery.

"So," Margaery said again, "Is your mind made up?"

Gods, it was.

She'd angsted over her feelings for Margaery since those stolen kisses, wafting between wondering what her lady mother would think of her if she saw her now and memories of Margaery's sweet smiles and gentle words, so gentle after what felt like a lifetime without.

And she'd come to the conclusion that she wanted nothing more than to see Margaery spread bare as she had been that night in Joffrey's chambers, and damn the consequences. The gods may curse her for what she wanted from the other girl, but, as Cersei had once told her, the gods cared nothing for the plights of mortals.

And they certainly cared very little for Sansa Stark, so they could all hang, as far as she was concerned, in this moment.

Margaery was the only good thing in Sansa's life since she had arrived in King's Landing, the only person Sansa had ever found herself able to be close with, the only one whom she had ever believed truly cared about her since her father's horrific death.

And she was never going to let Margaery out of her sight for very long again.

And if that wasn't a good thing, then she wasn't certain what was.

"Yes," she whispered softly.

Margaery smiled gently. “Are you certain? My own is quite muddled on the matter myself.”

Sansa blinked at her, heart sinking, and Margaery quickly moved forward, kneeling at her feet ad taking both of Sansa's hands in her own.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Margaery whispered. “Gods, Sansa, I’ve wanted you since the moment I first laid eyes on you, and that isn’t going to change. Only, what happened with Joffrey...” She swallowed. “I’m not sure that we should. I don’t want to...to do this, only later for us to-”

Sansa kissed the next words off Margaery’s lips, for they sounded decidedly like something she did not want to hear in this moment, and then Margaery was moaning into the kiss, lurching forward and pushing herself up between Sansa’s knees, her soft breasts sliding against Sansa’s stomach through the thin fabric of her robe.

Now that she had kissed the other girl, she could confess that she had little idea what to do next, but Margaery seemed not to mind.

Sansa felt cool sparks running down her back as Margaery pulled her closer, pressed their lips more tightly together, felt Margaery open her mouth and opened her own in turn. Margaery's mouth was warm and wet and soft, and Sansa pressed forward as though she were a starving woman seeking the only thing that would nourish her.

And, in this moment, she supposed it was.

Sansa’s hands curled in Margaery's hair, then her silky robe, then reached for the ties to Margaery’s robe, amazingly accurate, she couldn't help but think absently, given how distracted she was, sliding it off with almost shaking fingers, and Margaery grinned at her, taking the loops for herself and finishing the task quickly enough, her robe pooling open to expose the soft, beautiful skin beneath.

For a moment, all Sansa could do was stare, chewing on her lower lip, nevermind that she had already seen all of this before, in Joffrey's chambers. Margaery was beautiful, and all the more so for the fact that they were alone just now.

The robe still clung to her arms, but the rest of her, soft curves and pale skin, was bared before Sansa, all that smooth skin that seemed to go on forever, hair that fell around her shoulders and neck, perfectly out of the way of everything that Sansa so desperately wanted to drink in.

The scars from Joffrey's handling of her were mostly faded now, though Sansa knew they would never go away forever and it irked her that she had to know that so intimately, strange and wrong against Margaery's pale, thin throat, but still beautiful as everything to do with Margaery would always be.

Her breasts swung with the motion of the robe coming free of them, round and so inviting that Sansa had to hold her hands in her lap to keep from reaching out to touch them almost instinctively, Margaery's nipples already hardened into little pebbles as she stared at them, almost straining against the skin there. And down, to the smooth lines of her stomach, the soft pouch before a small expanse of brown hair dipped between her legs.

Sansa licked her lips, swallowing hard.

A part of her wasn't sure if she was still dreaming.

Margaery rolled her shoulders, the robe spilling off of her shoulders and pooling around her knees, and that was quite all that Sansa could bear, reaching out and dragging her fingers along Margaery’s shoulders, pulling her as close as she dared.

Margaery, fortunately, was willing enough to go, climbing onto Sansa’s lap without a second’s hesitation, surprisingly not a burden as she situated herself across Sansa’s legs, her eyes blooming with lust, and not a hint of the sweetsleep she’d had in Joffrey’s chambers.

And then she was kissing Sansa again, hands reaching out to pull them flush before twining in Sansa’s hair. Sansa let her head loll with the motion, for Margaery's hand was gently teasing rather than ripping at her hair as one of Joffrey's guards' would have been, in the only other situation in which Sansa had ever had her hair pulled upon.

No, perhaps...perhaps a lifetime ago, or two lifetimes ago, she could remember a boyish little sister yanking at her elaborate curls, could remember snapping at her to stop it...

She didn't quite need to push such thoughts from her mind as Margaery gave her hair another playful little tug and then suddenly Margaery's tongue was inside her mouth, pressing against her own and then wrapping around it, pulling them even more tightly together as Margaery's hands roamed down from her hair and one wrapped around her breast.

She thought, for a moment, of the way Joffrey had touched her in the Great Hall, posessive and cruelly as his fingers wrapped around her breast, but this was nothing like that. Margaery's hands were soft and gentle, kneading at her breasts through a cloak Sansa hadn't realized she was still wearing.

And that seemed rather silly, didn't it, that she still wore clothes while Margaery wore nothing at all, but she couldn't find the time to do something about that when Margaery's hand suddenly squeezed at her breast, gently exploring, and she let out a sharp gasp at the sensation, which seemed to extend all of the way from her breast down to deep inside her core, and she bit down hard enough on her lower lip to draw blood as she felt her thighs growing wet once more.

This time, she promised herself, she would not run.

She let out another little wanton moan, however, as Margaery's fingers reached for her gown, began slipping it off of her all too slowly, until Sansa's fingers tangled in the other girl's and in the ties in her frenzy to get the constricting thing off of her.

Margaery let out a dark little chuckle that did horrible things to Sansa, sent that shiver down her spine again as cool sparks made their way into her most private region, and she closed her eyes and moaned until she was certain someone would hear them and come to see what was going on.

And that thought sent a sudden wave of terror through Sansa, for she sat up abruptly, pulling at Margaery's arm.

She mourned immediately the loss of Margaery's mouth on hers, but she supposed that would just have to be born.

"Someone will...someone will hear," she gasped out, but Margaery only chuckled again.

"Elinor will keep them out," Margaery promised the other girl, and while Sansa had her reservations about Elinor hearing, she couldn't quite voice them as Margaery suddenly bent down and wrapped her lips around Sansa's reddening nipple.

She let out a small cry, more out of surprise at the action than anything, but then Margaery's lips were gently sucking, and though the sensation was still a strange one, it was one that she found she quite liked. One that she didn't want to ever stop.

Still, she felt rather inadequate in response, just sitting here and allowing Margaery to...to do that, to her, and so she let her hands grope out against Margaery's shoulders, roll down Margaery's buttersoft skin until they were brushing against Margaery's naked breasts, and she found that she didn't quite know what to do, then.

She couldn't exactly reciprocate Margaery's own actions, after all, not with the way they were now positioned, Margaery almost curled below her on the sofa, and besides, she wasn't sure that she would be able to.

Margaery's tongue suddenly lapped against Sansa's nipple, and she felt a jolt that went all of the way down to her core, freezing up at the sensation.

Margaery pulled away abruptly, and Sansa hoped that she did not quite hear the keening sound that emerged from Sansa's lips in response.

"Was that...not good?" Margaery asked, and Sansa found herself staring at those plump pink lips and not quite hearing the question.

Instead, she moved forward, pressing her own lips to Margaery's once more, and Margaery was suddenly so close to her that she could feel Margaery's wetness pressing against the skirt pooled around her waist, which she was rather surprised to realize she was still wearing.

She stifled a gasp at the touch of skin to cloth, and then Margaery seemed to have read her thoughts, for her hands suddenly moved down from Sansa's breasts to the cloth at her waist, though she did not attempt to move it as she brushed at the skin underneath it.

Sansa jerked even as she wondered why Margaery was not moving it, until Margaery's hands began to stroke in earnest at the skirt, her touch light as a butterfly but fast and rhythmic, until Sansa was moaning again for a much different reason, and she was sure that if Margaery did not soon let up she would burst-

"Stop," Margaery gasped out, and Sansa groaned against her, that spot between her thighs aching at the thought of following Margaery's suggestion. And then Margaery was pushing at her shoulders, pushing her away. "Sansa, we have to...we should stop."

Sansa frowned at the other girl. "Wh...Did I do something wrong?" she asked nervously, and Margaery grinned at her, pecking her on the lips.

"Of course not," she murmured gently, "but..we should still stop. I want to do...more, but...It was lovely. I don't think...I don't think we're ready for much more than that, just yet."

She was babbling, Sansa thought inanely, and she had never heard Margaery babble. She wondered if the other girl did the same thing with Joffrey, and then froze as she realized that thought.

They'd...Oh, gods, they'd...

She let out a nervous chuckle, and Margaery gave her a strange look; perhaps she'd been right, and they should stop.

Sansa shook her head. "I..."

She didn't quite know what to say now, for all that Margaery was babbling. She felt as if something deep inside her had been torn loose, but a good kind of tearing, and she wanted nothing more than to wilt against Margaery and cease to exist.

Margaery must have seen the way her eyes were drooping, for she pursed her lips. "I was thinking that you ought to take a bath, after all of that, but perhaps you'd better take a rest, first," she suggested, and Sansa frowned, reaching to pull up the sleeves of her gown.

Margaery laid a hand over hers, and Sansa found herself staring down at those lithe fingers overtop her own with something approaching wonder.

"In here," she said with an indulgent smile, gesturing to her own bed, and Sansa found herself flushing once more.

And then she couldn't get that crimson stain out of her cheeks, just thinking about why Margaery thought she needed a lie down. About how Margaery had wrapped her lips around Sansa's nipple like-

"Sansa," Margaery said gently, and the name seemed to break her spell. She blinked and shook her head at Margaery.

"Perhaps...perhaps a bath would be good, first," she said, unable to quite imagine taking one in her current state, but then, her gown was sticking to her clothes.

Margaery bit back a smile. "I'm worried you might fall in," she confessed gently, and Sansa flushed further.

"I'm not...I won't fall in," Sansa said, all too aware of how petulant her voice sounded, in that moment.

Margaery chuckled. "Whatever you say, my lady."

Chapter Text

"The Iron Islands are a problem that it has become increasingly clear we must deal with," Tywin said, as Tyrion walked into the room, and his youngest son bit the inside of his cheek to withhold a sigh.

Already standing inside the Hand's office, his brother Jaime was tapping his fingers rather aimlessly against the back of the only other chair in the room, looking close to bored already, and Tyrion wondered how long their father had been ranting to him before the messenger Lord Tywin had sent had managed to pull Tyrion from his bed.

Tyrion folded his hands across his chest, wondered for a moment why this shouted matter was not being discussed in a meeting of the Small Council, useless as Tywin Lannister seemed to find it, rather than with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, son or not, but then he understood.

Jaime had never been a member of the Kingsguard in Lord Tywin’s mind, and Lord Tywin had already come up with a solution to the problem of the Iron Islands.

Tywin had no made no secret of his wish to have Jaime removed from the Kingsguard since the moment it had happened, and with Jaime’s return, sans his sword hand, it had become clear that Tywin expected it to happen more than he’d ever done before. Jaime’s continued stubbornness on this issue had only infuriated their father, in the way that Jaime alone could get away with, out of all Tywin Lannister’s children.

But even Tywin Lannister’s patience had its limit, and Tyrion understood that their lord father’s was very close indeed, to his own amusement, even if he knew that Jaime would rather die than be sent to lord Casterly Rock.

And, judging by the nominally less collected expression on Tywin’s face and the anger still flashing in Jaime’s eyes, hastily hidden beneath a veneer of boredom, that was just what they had been discussing.

Which was why it made sense, really, that Tywin was now speaking of the Iron Islands. But for all that he claimed to control his children; Tyrion had begun to suspect in recent months that he didn’t really know them, first with his foolish idea to foist Cersei off on that poor crippled boy, and now believing that he could embarrass Jaime into agreeing to leave the Kingsguard.

Sometimes Tyrion found himself wondering why Tywin Lannister bothered to deal with his pawn pieces, instead of taking the damned Iron Throne for himself. Kinghood certainly agreed with him.

"They've been a problem for a while," Tyrion said, glancing between brother and father warily, "And we've done nothing so far."

"Because we were distracted by flowers," Tywin gritted out, and Jaime glanced between Tyrion and Tywin with a rather confused look on his face, the anger in his eyes growing only slightly dimmer by the change in topic.

Tyrion hadn’t been spending as much time with him as he knew he should have, in the wake of Cersei’s departure, but Jaime seemed oddly calm anyway, and Tyrion wondered if it had anything to do with the rumors that he spent more time in the White Tower talking with the horribly tall woman he’d brought back from the North than he did guarding the King.

Word was from Bronn, she’d asked to join the Kingsguard, citing her work for Renly, and been laughed down for it by a bratty young king still of the opinion that she’d put a sword through the stomach of the previous king she’d served under.

And while Tyrion himself hadn’t quite made up his mind as to whether Brienne of Tarth had done just that, Jaime seemed quite convinced of her innocence.

“Not a kingslaying bone in her,” he’d quipped, when Tyrion had asked him about it, and Tyrion had pretended not to see the bitterness in his brother’s eyes then.

But still, Jaime and Brienne of Tarth seemed to have grown rather close in their recent travels, much to Cersei’s disdain. Before she’d left, Tyrion remembered hearing her accuse Jaime of falling for “that great ugly thing,” convinced that her twin would have fought harder for her if he had not strayed.

Not that Tyrion wasn’t happy to hear it. Joffrey was perhaps the last person in the Red Keep who needed protecting, anyway, given how he never left it, and it was nice to learn that his brother was interested in someone other than their blood relations.

"So send the flowers to deal with the Iron Islands," Tyrion suggested, forcing himself not to shrink down as he'd wanted to do ever since he was a child and his father had first looked upon him with that particular expression, lips pursed as if he’d just eaten a rather sour lemon. "Ser Garlan Tyrell is a capable military leader, I'm told, and he should do the job nicely. Between the Tyrell and Redwyne forces, we should be able to route them out easily enough.”

"Mace Tyrell will never agree without considerable recompense," Tywin murmured, folding his hands on the desk of the Hand, and Tyrion had the sudden feeling that he was a child being led to a certain point of thought by a particularly cruel maester. “The Iron Islands are far from here, after all, and we have already stolen one son from him.”

But Tyrion would make an attempt, anyway, if only to keep from seeing the way Jaime clenched his fist around his sword’s hilt and glared daggers into that desk.

"So give it to him," Tyrion suggested. "Another ridiculous title, since he seems to like that so much. He can have one of mine, if he likes. That should appease him for a while.”

Tywin shot him a look. “Perhaps Master of Coin, as you seem to be doing so poorly with it lately,” he muttered, and Tyrion shrugged.

“It’s not my doing that the mines of Casterly Rock are running dry, Father, nor that the Ironborn are rebelling,” he muttered under his breath, but rather thought that Lord Tywin heard him anyway, even if he said nothing of it.

His father didn’t react to the barb, however. “The Iron Bank is already threatening to call in the Crown’s many loans, and I will not have them believing they can hold such threats over us. The Greyjoys will be dealt with, and after them, Stannis Baratheon, as it seems the Bank will only stop funding him when they have seen him crushed in battle. When Lord Mace is made the Master of Coin, it will of course be hinted to him that...a contribution from House Tyrell will be necessary.”

Tyrion raised a brow. “I would rather owe the Iron Bank than House Tyrell,” he muttered, and Jaime glanced between them, brows furrowed, a sudden, cold understanding in his eyes. “I do not see the harm in it, for now. The Braavosi have been damnable slick with their allegiances, of late.”

“House Tyrell will get what is theirs, in time,” Lord Tywin promised ominously. “But in the mean time, the Crown is wont to give the flowers all of the credit for putting down a rebellion, as it were. We cannot afford to be seen as so weak before all of Westeros. Therefore,” he glanced purposely at Jaime just as Tyrion opened his mouth to interrupt, “You will go with Garlan Tyrell and help lead his troops.”

“Isn’t that a bit excessive?” Tyrion asked, a tad desperately. “The Greyjoys may think we see them as an actual threat.”

Jaime balked. “My duty is to the King,” he said, not missing a beat. “The King is here.”

Tywin leveled him with a look. “And it is in the interest of the King to keep the Greyjoys from another full-scale rebellion. The King will have other Kingsguard here, more capable of protecting him.”

Jaime gave him an unamused look, lifting his golden hand. “The King doesn’t even believe that I can protect him here by beating on smallfolk. How do you think the Tyrells will perceive me being sent with them to put down the Greyjoys? No doubt they will expect that you’re asking them to put a sword through my back.”

“The Tyrells understand their duty to the Crown. And when you return victorious,” Tywin continued, “The King will grant your request to retire honorably from the Kingsguard.”

Jaime stared incredulously, though he had to have known that this was where their lord father had been headed. “No. I won’t do it.”

“That,” Tywin said, leaning back in his chair, “Is exactly what your sister told me when I informed her that she would be marrying Willas Tyrell the first time. And she ended up doing as she was told, as will you.”

The air felt suddenly cold, and Tyrion inched toward the door as his brother and father stared each other down. Jaime looked away first, but Tyrion thought it was rather a near thing.

"And so I’ll do as you want and breed too, carry on the Lannister name. Perhaps you can marry me to another child bride?" Jaime asked rather belligerently. It was a tone he alone had often used against their father as a child, and thus had never felt the need to hold it back. "I hear Arya Stark is skulking about the Eyrie, these days. You've Sansa Stark already, and she's yet to have a child-"

"If I wanted Sansa Stark shunted off to Casterly Rock where she could be forgotten by the masses, then she would damn well be full with child already," Tywin snapped, and Tyrion jerked at the words. "As it is, she serves a better purpose here. No, you will go with Garlan Tyrell, and when you return you will leave the Kingsguard. Joffrey will grant this, and you will marry who I damn well tell you to."

"What happened to 'you're going to consummate that marriage if it is the last thing I do'?" Tyrion asked incredulously, momentarily forgetting his brother’s plight in lieu of his wife’s.

His lord father looked less than impressed. "It is common enough knowledge that Joffrey thinks of Sansa as his toy, and he makes no efforts to hide this. It is for the good of our House if that rumor is put to rest. If she becomes suddenly pregnant, it will never be. In time, she will have, and that child will deliver us the North. However, she doesn’t need a child, just now, but needs to be a reminder to the people of what happens to those who rebel against the Crown.”

“You mean against House Lannister,” Jaime muttered, and Tyrion suppressed a snort, started humming the Rains of Castamere under his breath.

Tywin glanced at his two male children dispassionately. “Get out,” he finally muttered, and Jaime grinned openly, something which Tyrion would never dare to do.

“A drink?” Jaime asked, once the door to the chambers of the Hand of the King had closed behind them, and Tyrion’s lips twitched.

“I don’t think I ought to be indulging your drinking habits, brother mine. We already know that Cersei has been corrupted by them.”

Jaime gave an almost-flinch at the mention of Cersei, and then shrugged. “Can’t hurt if I don’t indulge as much as you,” he quipped, and Tyrion snorted.

“How is it going with Bronn, then?” he asked, folding his hands behind his back before reflecting that he looked rather too much like their lord father, that way, and letting them fall uselessly to his sides.

Another shrug. “Well enough, I suppose, but not enough for...” he glanced back at the door of the Hand of the King as they descended the steps of the Tower. “Perhaps I just won’t come back, from fighting the Greyjoys,” he muttered. “Father certainly won’t be able to marry me off then.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Tyrion admonished almost instantly. “It isn’t funny.”

Jaime smirked. “Oh, you know it would never happen, Tyrion. Father would have the Stranger throwing me back the moment he heard of it.”

Tyrion sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll figure this out, Jaime,” he promised, because he could never bear to see his older brother downtrodden about anything, not when they were young and he hadn’t understood why Jaime might be, the day their lord father had announced his plan to marry Cersei to Prince Rhaegar, and certainly not now.

Jaime smiled wanly. “No,” he murmured, glancing down at the fake hand Cersei’d had so diligently made for him, then scorned. “I don’t think it will matter, anyway.”

Damn. Tyrion was growing tired of seeing that look so much these days, whether it be in his wife's eyes or Jaime's.

Chapter Text

"Lady Sansa!" Joffrey called out to her, and then held out his hand expectantly, and, with a nervous glance toward her lord husband, who nodded rather stiffly at her, she stepped nimbly forward.

Joffrey had insisted on another family feast, for some unknown reason that he had not seen fit to explain once everyone had arrived for it, and Margaery was tired of guessing. It was no one's nameday, no wars had been won or tourneys announced.

Lord Tywin looked just as bemused as she felt, which she supposed was a rather unaccustomed feeling for him, as he sat some seats away from them, Ser Jaime on one side and Tommen on the other, who, she was beginning to notice, was spending too much time around his grandfather. He was still young yet, barely more than a toddler, she sometimes found herself thinking, but she could not have been the only one to notice how the Old Lion had taken Tommen under his wing when Cersei had left for Highgarden.

But she thought she understood a little better, as she watched Sansa freeze by her husband, staring at Joffrey's proffered hand in something like horror before glancing over at Margaery, seated at Joffrey's right.

And then kept staring.

Margaery would have almost been amused if she were not in fact nervous that someone would notice the rather obvious way Sansa was staring at her form fitting gown, tan, relatively simple and sleeveless but covered in sequined roses and what Margaery suspected were real diamonds.

She had rather thought Sansa might like it, but she hadn't realized it would make Sansa loose all rational thought, or she would not have worn it. And then Sansa started to blush, and Margaery wondered if it would be appropriate to yell at her not to give the game away before it had even started.

She could almost see what the other girl was thinking just by looking into her clear eyes. Could see soft, flushed skin and hear clothes rustling and harsh panting and-

It took a not so subtle nudge from her lord husband to remind her where she was, it seemed, for Sansa started moving again, no longer looking at Margaery as she moved to where Joffrey was still holding out his hand, a tad impatient now, and it was reflecting on his face.

"I'm glad you could join us," Joffrey told Sansa, and then bent down and kissed her hand, and Sansa stared at him with all the confusion that Margaery felt on her face before it went carefully blank as she lifted her head.

She did not, to her credit, mention that she and her husband had known better than to refuse his invitation, merely allowed him to lead her around the table until he pulled out the chair on his left for her and bade her sit.

Tyrion sat beside her, looking furious, and Margaery understood why.

She wondered if this was what Joffrey had been like to Sansa in the beginning of their courtship, while her father still lived and was not considered a traitor, when he had to be nice to her, as he'd had to be nice to Margaery before he understood that she was like him.

Chivalrous. Charming.

By the look on Sansa's face, quickly hidden as Joffrey took his seat, Margaery rather suspected it was, and that rather scared her.

She knew that Joffrey and Sansa had not interacted since he had told Margaery to beat her in his chambers, knew that the way Sansa's hand was shaking as Joffrey let go of it was not a coincidence. And now, Joffrey was acting as her prince charming once more.

Margaery took a sip of her wine. Sansa was smart; she would know that Joffrey was up to something, much as she did not know what.

He had enjoyed her beating more than Margaery had thought, which meant that no doubt, he would call for it again. Soon.

The wine in her mouth tasted vaguely of blood, and Margaery set her cup down once again as the servants brought out their feast and Joffrey took his first bite, the rest of the family theirs.

Joffrey reached out and brushed his hand against Sansa's as they both reached for a roll, and Margaery caught Lord Tywin glaring at Joffrey out of the corner of her eye.

"Prince Tommen," she said with unnecessary loudness, turning to the little boy with a wide, too bright smile, "I hear that my brother Ser Loras has begun to teach you the sword. He says you have quite a talent for it."

Little Prince Tommen's eyes widened as he realized she was addressing him, and he glanced almost nervously at his grandfather before he answered her.

"Yes, Your Grace." A nervous swallow. "I...I think I do." It sounded almost like a question.

His voice was quiet, tiny, as it always was, and Margaery felt a small spark of pity for the child that she could not quite explain.

He didn't look much like Cersei or Jaime. No wonder Cersei didn't appear to love him as she did her oldest boy.

"I suppose that must be very fun to make up for your lessons," she continued, noticing that she had Joffrey's full attention now, that he had left Sansa alone to not eat on her own.

Tommen nodded, a small smile on his face. "Yes, Your Grace. Though Ser Pounce misses more often now."

Margaery affected a look of sympathy. "I suppose he must be very brave," she said in all seriousness. "But now he has a knight to protect him, so he ought to be grateful."

Tommen nodded again, his head bobbing up and down. "Yes, Your-"

"It's only sticks they play with," Joffrey said dismissively, and Margaery felt his hand curl around her waist and pull her to him, grubby fingers digging into her side. "At least my uncle Jaime isn't teaching him, or it wouldn't even be that," he continued, smirking at the golden hand Jaime had sitting uselessly on the table.

Jaime glowered, but Margaery didn't bother to laugh, as Joffrey was no doubt expecting of her. Instead, she took another sip of her wine, wondered for a moment if it really was blood, for all that it tasted like it.

But Joffrey seemed to forget Sansa in his jealousy over Margaery speaking to Tommen instead of him, which was exactly as Margaery had wanted it, so she could not bring herself to complain about how it had happened.

Her grandmother had warned her, after they had interrogated Sansa about Joffrey's treatment of her, that she would likely be safe from Joffrey's ministrations as compared to Sansa, because her family had an army and grain and the Lannisters would keep their king in line.

But the moment Joffrey began to beat her, Loras would kill him. That was why her grandmother worried.

And it had nearly happened as she had suspected, the day Joffrey had finally taken his hand to her, never mind that it had been at her own suggestion. It had taken her rape by Ser Osmund to keep Loras from acting on his desire to kill her husband, as she had known it would the moment she brought it up.

She had hated manipulating her brother in that way, but had known it was the only thing that would stay his hand. She just wished she could bring her brother back from the pit of self-loathing he seemed to have fallen in since that day without watching him put a sword through Joffrey's back and being executed for a Kingslayer, for she worried that it would always be one or the other.

Joffrey hadn't beaten her since he'd had Sansa brought to their rooms, as she'd rather begun to suspect he didn't enjoy seeing Margaery bruised and bleeding as he did Sansa, but she knew it was only a matter of time until he beat one of them again.

And, judging from the way he was now refilling Sansa's wine cup with the utmost care, reaching out to push a curl behind her ear, Margaery rather suspected that this time, it wouldn't just stop at a beating.

She shivered, felt her hands begin to curl in her lap as she glanced down at them, noticed the slight tremor.

She did not want Sansa to undergo what she had at the hands of Osmund Kettleblack. She did not want to see the pain in Sansa's eyes that she worked so hard to conceal from her own.

And she did not want to watch Joffrey stick his sword into Sansa, as he'd been threatening since the moment she'd married Tyrion Lannister.

And the only one she knew who could keep that from happening was silently reattaching his golden hand before reaching for another jug of wine.

She wondered if they were all going to be alcoholics, by the time Joffrey was finally dead.

Chapter Text

Margaery had not thought overmuch of Brienne of Tarth since she had been released from the White Sword Tower of the Kingsguard after Loras had spoken to her of Renly's death. And while Margaery was not certain she believed the tale Brienne had spun to Loras and he to her of a shadow demon sent by Stannis Baratheon, Loras clearly had been shaken by it, so Margaery had done her best to put thoughts of it from her mind.

Renly may never have been her husband in any way that mattered, but she liked to think that they could have been friends, if they'd had the time to be, and she had adored him, as a child, the handsome prince, for all that she'd envied him for taking away her brother. It did not do to dwell upon his death.

Margaery knew that the other woman had remained in King's Landing since then, though she had no idea why, when she refused to play the game of courtier and would never be invited into the Kingsguard, despite her best attempts.

And when she still mourned Renly, her rightful king.

Margaery remembered those days just before the wedding, when Brienne had come to her in the belief that they shared an understanding, or at least a love, for the man who had loved Margaery's brother best of all, the shocked hurt on the tall woman's face when she had discovered that it was not so, that Margaery had moved on.

Brienne of Tarth had not approached her late king's wife since, and Margaery, in truth, was thankful enough for that, for she did not think she could often bear the look of sad longing for a man who would never have loved Margaery or Brienne, even if he had lived.

But still, Margaery had not quite expected to see her here, back in the White Tower, sitting at a long, shield-shaped table which Loras had described to her, back when he still thought the idea of being part of the Kingsguard fascinating, beside Jaime Lannister.

Staring at him as if he were the sun and moon and stars themselves as he rattled on about something Margaery could not bring herself to focus on, pointing emphatically with his golden hand down at a large, overstuffed book which sat on the table between them.

Whatever it was, it had Brienne laughing for a moment, before her face colored in obvious embarrassment and she sent the Kingslayer a stern look.

The Kingslayer and the woman accused of slaying Renly Baratheon. An odd pair, to be sure, and not the least because Margaery had thought Jaime Lannister wrapped around his sister's finger.

But then, Cersei Lannister was in Highgarden now, and Brienne of Tarth was here.

Margaery barely suppressed a snort. Men.

She was almost tempted to leave them to it, but then, she had come here with a purpose, and she owed it to Sansa to see it done, even if it meant dealing with two lovebirds whose forbidden, unconventional romance bit somewhat too close to home for her, now that she and Sansa were...

Well, whatever they were.

"Lord Commander," Margaery called out, as she stepped into the Round Room, plastering a polite smile on her face as she watched Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne move swiftly away from each other, Brienne flushing red to the roots of her straw blond hair and Ser Jaime slamming the book shut, his lips twitching back a smug smile.

"Queen Margaery," he dipped his head, standing immediately and stepping slightly away from Lady Brienne as she too got to her feet. "Are you looking for your brother, Ser Loras?" he asked, sounding rather flustered.

If she were a different woman, Margaery might have found it endearing, the way a grown man like Jaime Lannister could be so flustered over his feelings for another woman. As it was, she only found it amusing, and thus pretended not to realize that she had been interrupting anything at all.

And a small part of her found it concerning, that Jaime Lannister's flustered look was a bit too similar to Joffrey's, whenever he wanted to show her a new toy and was worried about whether or not Margaery would like it.

Her brother Loras was teaching Prince Tommen the sword just now, as Margaery understood it. The boy was quite taken with the Knight of Flowers, who treated him as more than just a silent child, and Loras seemed not to mind Lord Tywin's constant orders of training the boy to fight.

Margaery sighed. She suspected her brother was rather bored here, though of course she couldn't know for sure. Not with the distance between them, now.

"No, Lord Commander, I'm afraid I was looking for you for a private word," she told him, and then continued sweetly, "Though if this is a bad time, I can return later-"

"No," Jaime interrupted coolly, and then, "Lady Brienne was just leaving."

Brienne shot him a look, and then gave Margaery a stiff bow that she did find rather endearing, and if things had been different perhaps she would have liked to see if Brienne of Tarth, the woman who fancied herself a knight, shared her...persuasions.

As it was, she merely smiled at the other woman and stepped forward when Lady Brienne shut the door after herself, leaving Margaery alone with the Kingslayer.

She suddenly disliked how that was his title, for all of his other achievements, for it could just as easily become her brother's legacy, in time.

Jaime Lannister stared at her for a long moment, before clearing his throat awkwardly, and Margaery found herself suddenly remembering her grandmother's affronted words, that Tywin Lannister had almost offered Margaery to this man, rather than a king, in his plotting.

But of course, the title of Kingsguard had stood in the way, much to her relief.

While Margaery could not deny that Jaime Lannister was a handsome man and would have been a kinder husband than her Joffrey, Margaery had only consented to marrying into this accursed family to become a queen.

Casterly Rock was not all that she wanted out of life, nor what her father had wanted for her.

"Ser Jaime," she said, with her most dazzling smile, "I don't wish to keep too much of your time. I have only a small favor to ask."

He blinked at her, staying behind the shield table, eying her like she was a poisonous serpent. She wondered if he had ever met any women who were not, though she rather doubted that Brienne of Tarth could be considered one. For all the rumors surrounding that woman, she was remarkably without guile.

He dipped his head. "Of course, Your Grace, if it is within my power to grant it."

“Who is on the roster to stand guard over the King tonight?” Margaery asked coyly, and revelled in the way the question seemed to throw him.

While Margaery could admit that the majority of her attentions these days focused on either Sansa or keeping Joffrey from doing something stupid, she resented the implication that she could not even make questions of the Kingsguard roster, when it was these very Kingsguard meant to guard her life.

"Your Grace," he said, after a long pause. "Is there any particular reason you wish to know that?"

She supposed that queens did not go around bothering with such things, but by the Seven, she needed him to understand, and had yet to think of another solution. She could not say it outright, of course, for such things would not be proper from a lady's lips, especially to a man she hardly knew, Kingsguard or not, and she was not entirely sure that he would do anything about it, if Margaery merely spoke of her...concerns.

He would have to see it, to believe it, much as Margaery hated to put Sansa into such a position.

“I have to sleep in those chambers as well,” she reminded him primly. "And I am the Queen." A subtle reminder that she would be answered.

“Ser Meryn, Your Grace,” he told her, and then his pretty forehead – pretty, and so like Cersei’s she sometimes found it disconcerting to look at – wrinkled at her expression. “Is that a problem?”

She bit her lip. “Only...I anticipate that the King might be in some danger, due to the recent threat the Small Council has spoken of with these...Sparrows,” she told him, and ignored the chuckle and condescending answer that seemed ready to follow it. “I would rest more easily if I thought my husband in completely safe hands. I seek only to know that he is under the best of protection. And Ser Meryn..." she shook her head, trailing off.

It was obvious enough to anyone who met him that Ser Meryn had more of a passion for molesting little girls than fighting with a sword, and she thought that would be enough to convince the Lord Commander.

Ser Jaime raised a brow. “Is there a threat you know of, Your Grace?”

He sounded suddenly wary, as well he might, when the protection of the King and Queen rested in his hands, much as he might dislike either one of them.

She shook her head, rather at a loss as to how she would convince him that he should stand guard tonight, for she knew he was too much his sister’s for her to attempt a seduction, and anything else might have him believing the King in danger, or suspicious of his motives for singling him out.

But it was not the King who was in danger, and Jaime Lannister was the only one who could help her here, and so she had to try. “A small one, Your Grace, and so I am hesitant to even give it a voice,” she told him in her quietest, meekest tone, instantly deciding she hated that tone and would never use it again.

"It was from the Master of Whispers, Lord Varys, and you know that his little birds are not always accurate."

Ser Jaime’s eyes narrowed at her, as if he was trying to see through her game, but finally, he nodded. “Ser Meryn is a goodly member of the Kingsguard, but if you would rather Ser Loras replace him-"

That was decidedly not what she wanted. Her brother would hear one peep of what was going on inside those doors and commit treason, and while she would love to see her brother’s sword through Joffrey’s back, she would rather not see her brother die because of it.

She gave Ser Jaime a smile that was more like a grimace, leaning forward and tapping her fingers on his table.

“I have...recommended that Ser Loras be taken off the roster for the King’s chambers,” she said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes, wondering if Cersei had ever played him as a damsel in distress. “I am sure you can imagine why.”

Ser Jaime stiffened, his eyes darkening as he finally set down his quill and giving her his full attention. “I see. Then, perhaps myself, as Lord Commander. Will that suffice?”

She brightened immediately, the foolish girl with a crush on a brave Lord Commander. She could play that part well enough, and men always loved to see their egos stoked, whether they lusted after their sisters or not.

“Oh, I think that would suffice, Ser Jaime. Joff speaks often of your chivalry as a knight.”

She knew at once it was the wrong thing to say, and could have kicked herself. Not for having to utter the nickname ‘Joff’ as though it rolled off her tongue, but for saying that Joffrey spoke well of anyone.

He had certainly made clear his opinion of Ser Jaime's skills with a sword just that afternoon, and she was a fool to have forgotten that.

“Are you certain there is not something else bothering you, Your Grace?” Ser Jaime asked stiffly, picking up his quill once more, but she saw him scratch out Ser Meryn's name, scribble in his own awkwardly, as though his hand wasn’t quite accustomed to writing.

She smiled because she knew he wasn’t looking at her. “No, Lord Commander. And thank you.”

Ser Jaime may be thicker than his famously witty brother, whose own smarts she was beginning to question given that he was remaining in King's Landing despite her warning to him, but he had not been on guard the night Sansa had first been taken to Joffrey's chambers, nor for most of the nights that Margaery had lain with her lord husband, no doubt by his own choosing.

He would do.

Chapter Text

She had known Joffrey would call for her again, the moment he had started kissing her hand and acting the doting prince he had been before he killed her father despite her desperate pleas, and Sansa had thought she was prepared for it.

Thought she could lift her chin and let Margaery beat her and know that they had something Joffrey would never understand because of the very fact that he longed for such beatings, that she would know Margaery didn't want to do this and everything would be all right because of her sudden understanding of her feelings for the other girl.

No matter what Sansa felt for Margaery, she was still a stupid little girl, and all of that confidence was gone the moment Ser Meryn threw her into the King's bedchambers and declared that he was to report to the White Tower for the end of his shift for the night, and Joffrey declared that he had no intention of watching Margaery beat her again.

"I think I'd like to fuck you tonight, my goodly aunt," Joffrey said with a smirk from where he sat on the end of his bed beside his wife, his eyes travelling down her form as Sansa froze and felt cold bumps break out on her skin. "Give you that child I've been promising. What do you say to that?"

Sansa turned wide eyes to Margaery, who sat on the bed beside Joffrey, her arm on his shoulder, the picture of calm despite Joffrey's words.

Sansa wished that the other girl looked surprised by the words, but whatever Margaery's expression currently was, it was not one of surprise. It almost looked like boredom, and Sansa found herself annoyed that she still found it so difficult to read the other girl's expressions.

But surely, surely Margaery would save her from...that. She had intervened, or started to, the last time, had kept things at a beating, but Sansa did not know if she could survive a rape, with Margaery looking on.

Margaery's hands were surely close enough that they could move to wrap around Joffrey's neck if she liked, but she didn't do that. Instead, she merely sat next to him with that calm smile on her face, as if she had not a care in the world.

Margaery had kissed Sansa breathless the other night, had groaned into her mouth and declared how much she wanted her, and now she was going to let Joffrey rape her to save both of their lives, but Sansa did not think she would survive that, no matter what Margaery seemed to think.

She didn't understand how Margaery could think that, after her close brush with what had almost been a rape at the hands of Ser Osmund Kettleblack, didn't understand how Margaery could not think this would finally kill the last bit of Sansa Stark that had still been holding on-

"My queen might have been jealous," Joffrey continued, smirking at his lady wife, "but I'm sure she won't begrudge me helping out my poor aunt, so disgraced at Court because of her inability to wet my uncle's cock."

Margaery hummed in response to that, before murmuring, "Your Grace, my jealousy aside, perhaps-"

Joffrey bent forward and kissed her, hard and punishing, and when he pulled back, Margaery held her tongue. "Oh, I'll let you play with her, too," he promised his wife. "Just like last time. To keep things fair. After all," he grinned, turning to look at Sansa again before eying his wife, "She's just a traitor's daughter, and we needn't worry about sharing her."

Sansa bit down hard enough on her lower lip to draw blood, belatedly realizing that this was not a good idea at all when Joffrey turned as if he could smell that blood and licked his lips.

She did not dare glance down at his trousers, but suddenly he was standing, moving toward her.

"I'll make you thank me when you grow fat with my baby in you, Lady Lannister," Joffrey promised her, and Sansa sent another panicked look to Margaery before she whispered a response, curtseying low so that she did not have to look at Joffrey's face.

"If that is what you wish, Your Grace," she heard herself say, and wondered why her words did not tremble as the rest of her did.

He slapped her. Hard, and Sansa's head snapped back with the force of the unexpected blow, forcing her onto her back as she lost her balance.

Joffrey cackled, suddenly squatting down beside her and reaching for her, and Sansa couldn't remember how to breathe and thought she might be sick and felt tears prick at her eyes and-

The door to the King's chambers banged open, Ser Jaime Lannister marching into the room and walking over to Sansa, pulling Joffrey up to a standing position by the arm.

Joffrey started sputtering and shouting something about how he was the King and could do as he liked, Ser Jaime's tone low in response to this so that Sansa could not understand his words, but her eyes were only for Margaery.

She watched as the other woman relaxed just a bit, wondered how Margaery had known Ser Jaime would rescue her, inclined her head just a bit.

Margaery sent her the barest hint of a smile before schooling her expression as Joffrey turned to her with wide, upset eyes, clearly expecting her to take his side.

She merely sighed, folding her hands in her lap, murmured something that Sansa's ringing ears didn't catch, and Joffrey was back to glaring at his Lord Commander once more.

But Ser Jaime was no longer paying attention to him, reaching down to pull Sansa to her feet in a grip that was not quite gentle, giving her a onceover before leading her from the room and away from a tantruming Joffrey.

And for once, Sansa couldn't bring herself to think about what sort of hell he would unleash on everyone around him because he hadn't gotten what he wanted. She was too relieved to have gotten away before he stole her last thing to steal from her.

Ser Jaime did not speak to her until they were out in the hall, and then only turned to her and asked with a cursory politeness if she was all right.

Sansa nodded, not quite certain that she could bring herself to speak in that moment, and then Ser Jaime, after a moment's hesitation, had his hand on her arm, dragging her along behind him with an expression on his face that kept her from bothering to ask where they were going.

She wondered for a breathless moment if he was planning on taking her to Tyrion, if she thought she could stomach that humiliation, even if she was not quite sure why she felt such a burning need to keep this of all things from her lord husband, but then Sansa realized that she was taking him out of Maegor's Holdfast altogether, and she blinked in confusion.

Still, she could not bring herself to ask the question on the tip of her tongue, just let Ser Jaime drag her along wondering if he was going to take her outside of the Red Keep and dump her there.

He looked angry enough to do so, even if she could not understand why he was so angry, and didn’t dare ask.

And then she realized where he was taking her, and almost dug in her heels.

Sansa had never been to the Tower of the Hand, but Ser Jaime did not allow her the opportunity to look around as he practically dragged up of the spiraling stairs to the top of it, pushing open the door of the Hand's office without knocking.

Lord Tywin Lannister was sitting at his desk as they entered, and stood to his feet as Ser Jaime dragged Sansa further into the room, raising one pale brow.

"Jaime," Lord Tywin said, looking first at his son and then blinking at Sansa, nearly hidden behind Jaime in a sudden bout of bashfulness, as if when she stepped forward that would make this real. "Lady Sansa." He gave Jaime a bland look that even Sansa understood.

There had better be an explanation for this.

Ser Jaime let go of Sansa abruptly, as if realizing for the first time that he was holding her wrist tightly enough to bruise, and stepped away from her.

"I was Joffrey's guard tonight. He would have raped her if I hadn't intervened," Ser Jaime said bluntly, and Sansa flinched at the words, so harshly spoken.

Flinched at the reminder of Joffrey's body, squatting above her own, at her imagination as it continued the scenario, hands ripping at her gown, Margaery watching on blandly-

"I see," Lord Tywin said, his face still as expressionless as ever, though Sansa thought she detected a hint of anger in his tone. "You may go, Jaime."

Jaime glanced between Sansa and Lord Tywin once more, opened his mouth, “I think I’d rather stay. She is my brother’s wife, after all.”

Tywin sent him a fearsome glare worthy of his namesake as a lion. “That will be all, Lord Commander.”

Jaime gave his father a hard look, glanced at Sansa once more, and then left the room, shutting the door rather forcefully behind him and leaving Sansa alone with the Hand of the King, who had never once acted as though he cared about her.

She'd been a fool, to think Ser Jaime was really rescuing her. He had probably brought her here so that Lord Tywin could order her killed, or make her take an oath of secrecy so that Joffrey could rape her at his pleasure.

Lord Tywin gestured to the seat in front of his desk. "Sit."

She did, and Lord Tywin sat a moment later, scrutinizing her as if he expected her to burst into tears.

And then he reached for the cask of wine on his desk and poured some of it into the glass sitting beside the mountain of paperwork in front of him, handing it to her.

Sansa wondered if it was poisoned. She drank it anyway. She rather hated the taste of wine, but it burned pleasantly down her throat, and so she was rather glad of the feeling now.

Sansa swallowed hard. "Lord Tywin-"

"Has Joffrey raped you?" Tywin asked bluntly, the words cold and polite despite the subject matter, and Sansa shivered. "Before tonight."

She shook her head, then, realizing that was not quite enough for him, spoke.

"No, my lord. He...The Queen tries to keep him from doing anything of...that nature," she whispered, glancing down at her hands and wondering if Tywin Lannister could even hear her, with how quietly she spoke.

"I see," Tywin said, voice heavy, eyebrows knitting together when Sansa glanced back up at him, then at the wall behind him. She wondered if he was surprised by the answer, or not. Was frustrated that, out of all of the people in King's Landing, she could never quite read him. "And does my son Tyrion know about this?"

Sansa went very pale. "No, my lord. I-"

"I see," Tywin repeated, giving her a long look. "It appears I have misjudged you, Lady Sansa."

She lifted her head. "My lord?"

Tywin sighed. "Joffrey will not appreciate his toy being taken away," Tywin said, his words littered with distaste, but Sansa still bristled at being referred to as a toy. "But I will not have it said that my son is being cuckold, nor that another married woman of a noble House has been sullied by another uncontrollable king. The boy will be dealt with."

Sansa blinked at him, understood that he didn't truly care whether Joffrey raped her or not, only that House Lannister's reputation would suffer should anyone learn of this new development.

Swallowed, because, for a moment, it hadn't totally sounded like that.

"My lord?" she asked quietly rather than standing and leaving, as Lord Tywin seemed to expect her to, then. He glanced up, face blank. "Another woman of a noble house?" she questioned, because that was easier than asking how Lord Tywin planned on "dealing" with the King of Westeros.

Lord Tywin's features clouded. "I do believe this conversation has ended, Lady Sansa."

She swallowed again, bent into a curtsey. "Good day, Lord Tywin," she whispered, bowing her head lower than necessary and hoping that he would go back to not noticing her again.

Chapter Text

She had expected Margaery to come and check up on her; of course she had.

Sansa merely hadn’t expected it to be when her husband was first leaving for his duties to the Crown. It wasn’t even morning yet, still dark in one of Lord Tyrion’s unusually productive days, at that point, and she was still dressed only in her shift.

She wondered if Margaery had been just as desperate to see her after last night as Sansa had been to see Margaery.

Shae eyed the young queen as she entered the room, glanced at Sansa, and then back at the young queen once more. Something in the woman’s eyes changed, then, and she made some hasty excuse to Sansa about how she had promised one of the other serving women her assistance this morning, and would Sansa be all right without her?

Sansa nodded, a little breathlessly, for the memory of the last time she and Margaery had been alone was flooding her mind, and she almost couldn’t think as she escorted Shae to the door.

When it had shut behind her lady, or Tyrion’s lady, of whoever’s she really was, Sansa turned to face Margaery, still leaning against the surprisingly soothing wood.

Margaery gave her a look Sansa was frustrated she couldn’t identify, before murmuring, “Lock it.”

Sansa had never moved so quickly in her life.

The moment the latch had clicked shut, she turned to find herself enveloped in the sweet, cloying smell and soft touch of Margaery, the other girl surrounding her so completely, and Sansa let out a soft sound that was almost a whine as she melted against Margaery.

Nothing felt safe anymore unless she was in Margaery’s arms. Nothing was safe, anymore, unless she was in Margaery’s arms, because then there was Tywin Lannister with his harsh looks and indiscernible questions, and Joffrey with his crossbow, and the anger on Jaime Lannister’s face that shouldn’t be there on Sansa’s behalf, and-

She buried her head in the silk of Margaery’s sleeve and rubbed her cheek against the utter softness not remembering the last time she had ever worn such a gown.

“Oh, Sansa, I was terrified when Ser Jaime came in,” Margaery told her, rubbing her hands up and down Sansa’s arms as if to ascertain that she was all right. “He looked angry as a demon. I almost thought he was going to...”

Slay the King again.

Sansa shook her head, lifted it to meet Margaery’s eyes. “He took me to Lord Tywin,” she said, and Margaery’s face seemed to twitch completely. “He told me that...that he won’t allow Joffrey to do anything like that again.”

Margaery raised a brow. “It’s about time,” she muttered, and Sansa couldn’t help but privately agree with her, even if what she said was only,

“He didn’t seem to know that it had gotten...so out of hand.”

Margaery nodded. “I thought he would have done something by now, had he known. But here I thought the Hand of the King knew everything that went on within the Red Keep.”

Sansa chose not to think too hard about that, for surely he would not have allowed things to progress so far, when he had seemed genuinely disgusted with his grandson’s behavior, at the time.

Besides, another worry was occupying her thoughts.

"One thing I don't understand, though," Sansa said quietly, "Is how Ser Jaime knew something was wrong. I think he knew even before Ser Meryn led me inside and returned to the White Tower.”

Margaery didn't quite meet her eyes, then, and Sansa knew the answer to her question before the other girl spoke. “I’m sure he heard through the door,” she murmured. “Joffrey is hardly subtle in his actions, and I have observed that the Kingslayer has a strange sort of honor to him.”

“Margaery.”

Margaery glanced away. “I saw the way he was looking at you, at that meal,” she said finally, and Sansa thought she appeared almost nervous. Sansa wondered if Margaery still thought her scheming could still disturb the woman she cared about.

Sansa was beyond such things, now, she thought.

And besides, this had hardly been a wicked sort of scheming, from what Sansa could tell.

It was almost...sweet, even if it was a little disconcerting for all of her secrets to be laid bare before Lord Tywin and Jaime Lannister.

“Everyone saw that,” Sansa argued. “Even Lord Tywin, and he still seemed somewhat surprised to see me there, in his office.” She shrugged. “For Lord Tywin, anyway.”

Margaery shook her head. “I know Joffrey's kindness, and I know what comes next, Sansa, and so I knew what to look for, but you’ve been spared that so far, and I would spare you from it still, whatever I must do.”

Sansa sucked in a breath, noticed that Margaery’s hands, still rubbing up and down Sansa’s arms, were shaking.

It took her a moment to understand what Margaery was saying. That Margaery had known, the moment they’d had that meal together and Joffrey had doted on Sansa like some kept woman, that he was likely going to rape her soon, and she had done what she could to prevent it.

It had been a near thing, though, even then.

The physical scars from Margaery’s near rape by the hand of Ser Osmund Kettleblack were gone now; the bruises had faded around her throat and on her face, and though Sansa had not seen everything of what was under Margaery’s clothes, she had looked mostly healed there, as well.

But some things never faded, Sansa knew, and she still remembered that day in Flea Bottom when the smallfolk had revolted and she'd nearly been killed, when the Hound had rescued her from those vile men...

Sansa kissed her.

Margaery looked startled, for a moment, before Sansa closed her eyes and lifted her hand to place it around the back of Margaery's neck and pull her closer.

And then she felt Margaery's lips pushing back against her own, and Sansa melted forward, into the sweet, supple curves of Margaery's body, hands grasping for leverage as Margaery's fingers brushed beneath her shift.

It was strange, kissing Margaery, Sansa had come to notice. Not because the other girl's lips were softer than Joffrey's, for it was a near thing, or because she felt any guilt for being with a woman when she was quite certain that the Seven forbid it (and damn them, for she was a Stark, and they belonged to the old gods, anyway).

On the few occasions when Sansa had been able to bear watching Margaery kiss Joffrey, it had been clear who was in control of that situation, no matter what Joffrey Baratheon would have liked to believe.

But when she kissed Sansa...

When she kissed Sansa, her lips were like fire in the first few moments, claiming every part of what was Sansa Stark until Sansa stole it back, sweet at first then rougher, and it seemed to her that Margaery wanted it that way.

That Margaery guided her until she pushed back, that Margaery was begging to be devoured.

Sansa's lips pried Margaery's own open until her tongue was brushing along the roof of Margaery's mouth, and Margaery made a noise that seemed to shoot from her own mouth into Sansa's, and then straight down her spine and into her womanhood, a jolt that sent yet more heat through her.

Sansa wasn't even aware that Margaery was frog-marching her back to the bed, the one Sansa shared with Tyrion but had never soiled with him, until they were falling on it together, falling and giggling at the same time, coming apart for only a moment before Margaery's lips were wrapped around her own once more.

Sansa barely had a moment to suck in a breath of air before it was stolen from her once more, before Margaery had tossed her onto her back on the sheets, and it flew out of her mouth and into Margaery's so quickly she nearly choked.

She heard a low, dark chuckle from above her, and Sansa reached up, having suddenly decided that Margaery was wearing far too many layers to Sansa's shift as she pushed Margaery's sleeves down around her elbows.

Margaery got the idea, pulling back and peeling off her outer shawl, then the top of her gown came to rest in a pool around her waist, and Sansa felt another jolt in her womanhood as she took in the outline of Margaery's pert breasts beneath her white shift, the other girl's nipples standing hard to attention.

Margaery saw her looking, and laughed, reached out a hand to take Sansa's in her own, pulled it up until it was resting on Margaery's breast beneath her shift.

Sansa sucked in a breath, glanced at the other girl before giving her breast an experimental squeeze.

Margaery sucked in a short breath, and Sansa glanced up at her nervously.

At that, the Queen let out a noise of frustration and surged forward once more, took Sansa's mouth again.

Somehow, Sansa forgot to be nervous as she kneaded Margaery's breast beneath her clumsy fingers, felt only frustration that the shift still stood between them, but then, she supposed she still wore hers, as well.

She was panting now, every breath drawn in difficulty, for her one thought was of Margaery, Margaery, Margaery...

"Is your lord husband coming back soon?" Margaery asked then, which Sansa thought a rather strange question for the moment until Margaery was hooking her thumbs under Sansa's sleeves and divesting Sansa of her shift in one quick move. Sansa shivered, her nipples hardening as they met the air before she shook her head.

"N-no, and Shae...Shae said she had some business with that other maid, so I'm sure we have some time," she whispered out, and Margaery let out a sound of approval, bending down and wrapping her lips around Sansa's left nipple in one quick movement, before Sansa could quite make out what she was planning to do.

"Margaery!" she yelped, as she felt Margaery's tongue tracing her, gods, tracing her nipple just so, "Joffrey?"

It was becoming even more difficult to formulate coherent sentences, much less complete thoughts.

Margaery pulled away with a frustrated groan at being distracted, her teeth grazing agaist Sansa's nipple in a way that was no doubt meant to be warning. Sansa did not find it so, and she threw her head back, gasping. "In bed. He won't be waking for a while."

Sansa blinked in alarm, head lifting. "You can't know that-"

"I tired him out after you left, else he would have gone running after you," Margaery told her, smiling impishly. "Sansa. Trust me."

And, gods, she did.

Until-

"Your Kingsguard?"

Margaery groaned. "Loras. He'll swear by the Seven that I am in my rooms. Sansa."

Reaching forward, Sansa traced the smooth lines of Margaery's stomach, just above where shift and gown had fallen to her lap, felt the soft skin there and wished she couldn't still see it littered with Joffrey's marks, even if they were gone, now.

Margaery bent down, and in the next moment, her mouth wrapped around Sansa's hardened nipple, and she yelped, glancing at the other girl in surprise. Margaery merely grinned impishly around her nipple, before sucking it suddenly.

The sensation very nearly made Sansa scream, and she found herself pushing down hard on Margaery's shoulders just to keep herself upright.

Margaery grunted at the pressure, but didn't pull away, not even a moment later when Sansa's hips bucked up against hers, desperately seeking some sort of contact.

Her womanhood had grown wet again, the way it had that day when Margaery had kissed her or she had kissed Margaery and the sensation had so scared her that she'd run...

She wasn't running now.

Instead, Sansa moved her lips to wherever she could find contact, sucked on Margaery's neck until she was almost certain she would leave a mark that Margaery would be hardpressed to explain to Joffrey, and only that had her pulling away, face paling as the horrible thought occured to her.

She knew she wanted this. Knew she wanted it more than anything, in fact, in this moment.

But this, this thing she had with Margaery that neither of them could explain or explain away, meant that she would be sharing Margaery with Joffrey, possibly for the rest of their lives. There would be no happy ending for her and Margaery, no escape from Joffrey.

Theirs would be a secret thing, forever. Something to be hidden away.

She shivered, but Margaery didn't seem to notice her sudden change in mood, as the wetness against Sansa's thighs grew suddenly cool.

Margaery did, however, suck at her nipple again, until it had hardened once more and all thoughts of Joffrey had been banished from Sansa's mind.

Sansa's back arched, pushing her closer to Margaery, until she could feel the bow of her spine pressed hard into the bed, uncomfortably so, but not uncomfortable enough to consider readjusting her position.

She didn't want to do anything that might cause Margaery to stop, especially a moment later when Margaery's teeth grazed her.

She was finding it rather difficult to breathe when Margaery next spoke.

"I want you," Margaery whispered against her skin, kissing a little bud behind Sansa's ear, then moving downward, and Sansa gasped at the sensation, her lower lip wobbling. "Sansa, I need you."

"Margaery-"

"Tell me you want me, Sansa," Margaery murmured, and Oh, by the Seven, now she was licking that spot on Sansa's neck, and Sansa let out a sound suspiciously like a mewl as she turned her head to give the other girl more access, digging her fingers into Margaery's shoulders.

"Margaery..."

Margaery licked that same spot again. "I'll stop if you ask me to. I will."

Sansa sucked in a breath. "Margaery..."

"Tell me stop, Sansa," Margaery whispered, pulling back a little. She wasn't Joffrey, Sansa knew. She wouldn't take what Sansa did not want to give her, even if she would force Sansa to love her while she played wife to someone else.

And that thought made the decision for her, before Sansa could quite sparse out what she was saying, the words erupting from her lips.

"D-Don't stop," Sansa gasped out, sagging against Margaery’s hold. “Don’t...ever...stop.”

Margaery chuckled lowly. “I don’t think that’s quite possible, my sweet girl, but I’ll do my best.”

Sansa sucked in a breath at the endearment, but didn't have time to ponder it for long, for in the next moment, Margaery was moving away from Sansa's abused nipples, tongue moving in a slow stripe down Sansa's stomach and to her waist, where she was thankfully without a shift, as Margaery still was.

Sansa did not know where Margaery had tossed Sansa's shift in her earlier fervor, and could not quite bring herself to care as Margaery settled herself back on the sheets.

"Wh...What are you...?" Sansa swallowed, fairly certain that she'd just begged Margaery not to stop not a moment ago.

Margaery gave her a long, searching look, and then gestured between the two of them with a flick of her fingers.

"Have you ever done this before?" Margaery asked, and Sansa shook her head, blushing despite how she had not cared a moment ago about her current state of undress.

“Lord Tyr-”

“No,” Margaery shook her head, smiled slightly. “I know that you and Lord Tyrion have not...that is to say, I did not mean with Lord Tyrion.”

Sansa’s eyes grew almost comically wide, and wondered if such a thing really was so shocking to a lady of the North, if those Northern folk really avoided keeping themselves warm to such an extreme, that it should be.

She doubted that, if Margaery had lived in the North, the other girl would feel any differently than she did now.

"No," Sansa admitted, voice small, "Only...only what we did in Joffrey's chambers, and then in mine..."

Margaery let out a harsh laugh. "That can hardly be called anything, my little bird. Can I?" she gestured downward and, with a blush, Sansa nodded.

Margaery's fingers roamed expertly down Sansa's waist, as if in search of something but touching all of the right places along the way, and Sansa gasped when the other girl's nimble fingers slipped under her gown, pulling it up and exposing her thighs to the thick night air.

They trembled suddenly, and Margaery glanced up at her, smiled reassuringly.

"Do you trust me, Sansa?" she whispered, and Sansa nodded so fervently she supposed it was a wonder her head didn't fall off.

Margaery smiled gently, and then she was moving slowly, graceful as a cat, Sansa couldn't help but think idly, as Margaery lay down on her stomach on the bed.

"What are you...?" Sansa blinked as the other girl's head came to land between Sansa's parted, shaking thighs, and she ignored the indulgent smile on Margaery's face as she favored the girl with an incredulous look.

"Sansa," Margaery said gently, one finger reaching out to ghost along Sansa's inner thigh, so lightly it felt like the first snow in the North, "Trust me."

She did, she did, she didn't understand why Margaery kept reminding her to do so when Sansa had never trusted anyone more than she did Margaery in this moment-

Margaery's head bent beneath Sansa's thighs, and then Sansa jerked in surprise as lips sealed around her womanhood in a kiss.

She shot straight up, staring at Margaery with wide eyes, pretending she couldn't make out the outline of a smile where Margaery's mouth was now pressed to her most intimate area.

Sansa wasn't quite sure what she had imagined, when she had pictured two women together, she and Margaery together. She knew, of course, that it would not be the same as with a man, that Margaery had no cock to fill her with, but this...

It felt strange, at first, but this only lasted until Margaery's lips parted, and suddenly Margaery's tongue was brushing against her folds, and the hot wetness that had been building up within Sansa threatened to damn her, in that moment, before they had even...done whatever it was Margaery was clearly planning to do to her.

She wondered if Margaery's tongue felt like a man's cock in a woman, but wetter, gentler somehow, and Sansa suddenly couldn't imagine taking anything other than Margaery's tongue, for the feeling it gave her was so intense, so full-

It felt wonderful, the feeling of Margaery's tongue, flicking in and out of her in slow, even strokes that made Sansa want to shout and forced her to bite her tongue so hard she could taste blood in her own mouth.

It didn't hurt though, strangely.

She willed her body to wait, for Sansa desperately wanted to find out exactly what that was.

Margaery let out another low chuckle at the way Sansa's body was almost shaking in her grip now, and then her tongue dipped between the folds of Sansa's cunny, and Sansa let out a shout that she was sure would bring the guards running-

No one came. No guards were likely to be near Tyrion Lannister's chambers, anyway, not on this side of the Red Keep.

"Margaery," Sansa gasped out, as she felt Margaery's fingers reach up, trace along her thighs before pinching each in turn, and Sansa found herself desperately in need of something to do with her hands, for it was torture to just lay there and let Margaery pull her apart like this. "Margaery, I-"

She couldn't breathe. Her ribs ached with the knowledge that she wasn't drawing in breaths, a pleasant sort of aching that had nothing to do with aching, and she chewed on her lower lip until she could feel a trickle of blood running down her chin, sparing an almost errant thought to the knowledge that she would have to explain it away to Tyrion-

Margaery tweaked her nipple, and this time, Sansa couldn't withhold the moan that erupted from her, for she was sure she would have torn her lip clean off if she'd tried.

She reached out with inexpert fingers, traced along Margaery's naked back as Margaery's tongue worked inside of Sansa, pulling in and out in a slow rhythm that made Sansa see stars.

"Margaery," she whispered again, her fingers moving to the nodes of Margaery's spine, tracing each one individually as if seeking purchase.

"A moment," she thought she heard Margaery murmur, and wasn't quite sure how the other girl managed it without pulling away from her, "More."

Sansa swallowed hard, nodded jerkily.

Sansa thought, in that moment that Margaery had asked her for, that she might die. Almost yearned for death, if she was being truthful with herself, if it meant that she could die from this, rather than having her head taken off her shoulders.

And then Margaery's tongue moved deeper in her than it yet had, and Sansa blacked out as the world exploded around her.

Chapter Text

Sansa opened her eyes to a feeling of all around uncomfortableness, from the sticky sensation currently drying around her thighs and buttocks to the arm wrapped too tightly around her waist, holding her in an almost bruising grip.

It took Sansa a moment to remember where she was, how she had gotten there, and then it all came tumbling back with horrifying swiftness.

She sat up straight in the bed which she shared with her husband, a bed which now carried a strong odor and sheets that were now terribly stained.

She swallowed, glanced at Margaery as the girl groaned and opened her eyes slowly. Sansa was not entirely convinced that she had been sleeping.

And then Margaery smiled at her, and the feeling of apprehension that had filled Sansa to the throat suddenly evaporated at the sight of that smile.

She understood finally what it was that so attracted men to sex, that so overpowered them about it, and made them act so foolishly.

She thought she might do the same, if she were a man with such chances.

"Margaery," she whispered, finding her voice suddenly hoarse. She distantly remembered that she had uttered a silent scream, before she had passed out.

Gods, she had passed out when they had finally...when they had finally...

Sansa was mortified, and her cheeks pinked even as Margaery chuckled and sat up with her, kissed Sansa's shoulder, then her neck.

The kisses brought back the apprehension that Sansa had somehow forgotten had been clawing at her throat, and she gulped, pulled back.

"I...I should go," Sansa said finally, splaying her hands out awkwardly by her sides, quite unsure what to do with them now that they were not reaching for Margaery. "I..."

"Sansa."

Sansa glanced up at her helplessly. "What we just did...Margaery..."

Margaery shifted off the bed, not bothering with clothes as she came to stand before Sansa once more. The gown that had been biding its time around her waist dropped fully to the ground, and Sansa could do nothing but stare.

Margaery traced a finger down Sansa's arm, and the other girl shuddered, found herself pushing her lower body into the bed sheets.

"I would like to do it again sometime," she whispered, and Sansa found herself nodding before she even realized that she was.

“Margaery...”

“Did you enjoy it?” Margaery asked, with unreasonable reasonableness.

Sansa sucked in a breath, mind instantly flashing through just what they had done. “I...”

“Sansa,” Margaery murmured, pointedly.

She hung her head. “I...Yes,” she whispered, and wondered why it felt like a weight off her shoulders, to say so.

Margaery grinned. “I thought you would,” she said finally, and grinned rather impishly.

Sansa mock-glared at her, not quite able to do more than that in her current condition. Swallowed. "But we can't do it again."

Margaery started, glanced at her. "Why ever not?" she asked quietly, looking genuinely surprised by Sansa's words.

Sansa found herself distracted by the hollow in Margaery's throat as she stammered out some response she wasn't even sure was sensical, but that she wished to say that it was dangerous, that if, that if...

Margaery kissed her again, slow and sweet, and Sansa found herself growing wet between her thighs once more, even if she wasn't entirely certain how she could have gotten into such a state so quickly after what had occurred.

She didn't quite know when Margaery's hand had slipped between Sansa's thighs, her cool fingers brushing against Sansa's warm folds and causing her to jolt.

Sansa gasped, glanced up at Margaery with wide eyes, and Margaery grinned at her, curling a finger gently inside of Sansa until Sansa thought she might black out again, as she had before.

Sansa gasped at the sensation, for while it wasn't quite like Margaery's lips had been earlier, this was a sensation she had never quite imagined she would experience, and it drew soft, strangled gasps from her, and damn whoever might be outside the door, for she couldn't bring herself to care.

Margaery was making reassuring sounds as her practiced fingers brushed gentle circles into Sansa's skin, and then further, as her fingers crooked and brushed against the insides of Sansa until she thought she might burst, going slowly but with an unmistakable intent. But Sansa couldn't tell what Margaery was whispering, could barely make out the sounds of words.

Knew nothing but that her cunny ached with need, that it was dripping all over Margaery's buttersoft hands and unto the soft sheets below.

Sansa whimpered, arched her body up into Margaery's fingers, made a keening noise that she hoped Margaery wouldn't acknowledge-

And then there came a very loud knock on the door, and in the next moment Shae's voice, sounding somewhere between amused and concerned. "Lady Sansa? Are you in there?"

Sansa gasped, and Margaery's fingers drew out of her so quickly that Sansa gasped and then grunted at the loss, which wasn't quite painful but still disappointing, pouting lightly before she glanced up at Margaery, and if Sansa weren't careful, she would find herself getting distracted in those lips once more...

"Lady Sansa?"

Margaery met her eyes, tilted her head in the direction of the door, and Sansa sighed.

It should have been daunting, the idea that so soon after their...affair?...had begun, they were already found out by someone they had not intended, for Sansa had figured out already that Lady Elinor knew somewhat by Margaery's choice.

But somehow, Sansa couldn't quite bring herself to be daunted for that reason.

Instead, she wasn't quite certain how she would bring herself to face Lady Shae, the woman who loved Sansa's husband and made little secret of that fact.

"Just a moment, Lady Shae!" she cried, and knew before she did it that she couldn't meet Margaery's eyes again.

She did.

Margaery's lips twitched first, and then Sansa's, and a moment later they had tipped back onto the bed once more, giggling like children much younger than they were, fingers twining against one another where they lay.

Sansa almost forgot that her womanhood was still covered in fluids, that a moment ago she could barely breathe, but then she glanced down at Margaery's fingers, still covered in her essence.

"You should get the door," Margaery finally whispered, when their laughter had subsided.

Sansa groaned, reached for her shift where it had fallen to the ground and hastily attempted to assemble it around her body in a way that didn't imply she had just been...that she and Margaery had...

Margaery reached out, combing her fingers through Sansa's hair with calm, practiced fingers, and Sansa gaped at her when a moment later Margaery brought her own fingers to her lips, wetting it with an obsene popping sound before rubbing at Sansa's arm, wet somehow still.

Sansa stared, quite unable to form any words in that moment.

She flushed furiously, even as Margaery leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "You'll want a bath before it dries, sweetheart." And then she kissed Sansa's cheek.

And then Margaery, Queen of Westeros bent down and lifted up her shift, put it on with fingers that moved calmly for all that they were quick, her gown following haphazardly after that.

Not a hair was out of place in her elaborate hairstyle, and Margaery slipped back into her shoes, going to the door and opening it with a polite smile to Shae.

Sansa envied her ability to remain composed in any situation in that moment, just as she had before, whenever Margaery stood around Joffrey and remained composed during all of the horrible things he had ever done.

Still, she was rather relieved that she had not had to stand and open the door herself, for she was quite sure she would not have been able to manage even that small feat, after what had just occured.

"Lady Shae," Margaery said, with a dazzling smile, not once glancing back at Sansa, "I see you've returned from your work early."

Shae stared at Margaery, eyes narrowed, before crossing her arms over her chest and stepping back so that Margaery might leave.

Margaery glanced back at Sansa once, a small smile quirking her lips, before she gathered her gown more firmly around herself and stepped nimbly from the room.

Shae stared after her for a long moment, before stepping into the chamber and shutting the door behind herself with unnecessary force.

Sansa swallowed.

Shae didn't speak at first, merely walked over to the bed and stared dispassionately at the sheets as Sansa stood shakily to her feet, still feeling boneless. And then Shae began to strip the bed, and Sansa released a breath she hadn't realized she'd still been holding.

"When I said you ought to be friends with the Queen, this wasn't what I meant," Shae reprimanded her when she finally turned around, arms full of their stained mess, though her voice wasn't as hard as Sansa had expected it to be.

That is, it wasn't as hard as she'd sometimes heard it be around Tyrion, when Shae was angry with him.

"I..." Sansa swallowed hard. "I know."

And gods, she hoped that Shae didn't suspect that, didn't think that was why she and Margaery were now-

It had nothing to do with that. She didn't want Margaery's protection, after all. She didn't want to be with Margaery for her protection, for that would only ensure they both lost it.

Shae gave her a long, slanted glance. "You ought to be more careful. It is not just infidelity they would catch you for, if they could."

Sansa nodded, rather jerkily. Of course, she knew that. "I know."

Shae glanced around the room as if looking for further evidence. "And you cannot expect me to clean the bed after you every single time."

Sansa sucked in a breath. "So you won't...tell?" she asked, her voice coming out tinny and smaller than she'd wanted.

She felt oddly light after the question came out of her, though. Too light, like nothing could touch her, when she knew she shouldn't be so reckless.

Shae gave her an unimpressed look. "I hardly worked as a lady should before I met Lord Tyrion," she told Sansa primly. Sansa flushed. "It doesn't bother me, Lady Sansa. And I know that you carry no love for Lord Tyrion in that way, and that the two of you have an understanding, and so I cannot wholly disapprove. But I do disapprove, because she is the Queen and I...care about you. You should be more careful." She nodded to the door. "And not just with yourselves."

Sansa swallowed, nodded. "Of course. I..."

The smirk Shae sent her was rather pointed. "Still," she said, her tone almost teasing now, "I suppose there are very few in the world who can say they've had a queen."

Sansa stared at her, flabbergasted. "Shae..."

"Just..." Shae frowned at her. "Just be careful, my lady."

Sansa nodded. "We will," she said, and wondered when it had become we.

Chapter Text

"Your Grace," Tywin said as Joffrey entered the Tower of the Hand, in the droll tone he used with particularly thick members of the Small Council, or when he was becoming annoyed and attempting not to show it.

Joffrey didn't appear to notice, though, swanning into the room with all of the confidence of someone who didn't know their head was already on the chopping block.

Tyrion leaned back in his chair and awaited the show yet to happen, still not entirely certain why he had been summoned here along with Jaime and Joffrey, as Tywin had not spoken to him since he'd entered the Tower some moments ago, but rather certain, by the look on Tywin's face, that he would at least enjoy the dressing down Tywin was sure to give their young king.

One had to take their victories where they could find them, these days, and, try as he might, Tyrion was not above petty victories anymore than Cersei, apparently.

Tywin motioned Joffrey to the one chair unoccupied in front of his desk then, directly next to Tyrion, and Joffrey stared at it distastefully, then at Tyrion, then up at his grandfather once more.

Joffrey looked instantly on edge, glancing from Jaime, where he moved to stand guarding the only other door besides the one which Joffrey had just come through with a thunderous expression, and Tyrion, whom Joffrey made sure to sneer at.

Tyrion wondered what had clearly made Jaime so angry, along with their father, whose cold expression was perhaps a shade colder than it usually was, he thought with an inner smirk.

"What is this about, then?" Joffrey said, turning back to Tywin. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was mussed. Tyrion wondered with amusement if the King had been summoned from his bed, and was rather glad that someone was still able to remind the brat that he was very much still a child. "My lady has...certain needs, before breakfast. I hesitate to leave her for long."

Tyrion attempted not to shudder; it was a near thing. He doubted Margaery Tyrell was anything but grateful that her husband had been waylaid.

Tywin was silent for several long moment during which Tyrion suspected he was simply enjoying watching Joffrey squirm, enjoying keeping the King of Westeros waiting because he was able to do so.

Perhaps their lord father was not so different from Cersei Lannister in some ways, either.

"This will not take long," Tywin said, in a voice that implied that it might, and he couldn't be bothered to care how annoyed that made their King, before glancing up from his paperwork.

"Can you tell me the story of why Prince Rhaegar fell, and dragged the Targaryen dynasty down with him, Your Grace?" Tywin inquired, in that same bland tone, and Tyrion blinked at him, rather surprised to have been dragged here to discuss that. "Your mother tells me you have a knack for Targaryen history."

"Amongst other things Targaryen," Tyrion muttered under his breath, and expected to at least get a snort from Jaime for it, but his brother was silent, looked almost stony, when Tyrion glanced at him.

The look was a little too similar to their lord father's, and so he looked away, a bit disturbed once more about what this meeting might entail, for Tywin had refused to inform him until Joffrey arrived.

Joffrey looked bemused at the topic of conversation, as bemused as Tyrion felt, but he answered all the same.

"He was a lunatic, who thought he needed that Stark bitch to give him a third dragon child to fulfill some prophecy because his Dornish princess was barren," he rattled off, getting marginally more excited as he spoke. Tyrion tried not to let his disgust show on his face, but it was a near thing. "So he kidnapped her and tried to get her with child, and my father killed him for it."

He sounded so damned proud, Tyrion thought, glancing at Jaime once again. The brat's real father, who had been killing an altogether different Targaryen, at the time.

Tywin looked less than appeased, tapping his index fingers together idly.

"A rather simplied version of events, but mostly correct. But what I press upon you to understand is this: Rhaegar Targaryen started a war because he could not keep his hands off of what did not belong to him," he told the boy king, voice bringing down the temperature in the room by degrees, and Tyrion felt an awful chill run down his spine, an omen that he might very well know just what this meeting was about. His pettiness over seeing Joffrey dressed down was very suddenly gone.

Joffrey, in turn, had gone rather pale.

Tywin continued, "Lady Sansa is your aunt by marriage, and if you continue in such behavior toward her, you will come dangerously close to reminding the realm of why it rebelled against its previous rulers. House Lannister is a proud House, and will not be dragged down as the Targaryens were because you wish to have your way with this girl. Nor will it offer its unconditional support to a Crown that does not respect it."

"You can't!" Joffrey screeched. "You're my grandfather, and my Hand! If you can't bloody do the job, I'm sure Margaery's father-"

"House Tyrell may have the largest standing army in the kingdoms as of this moment, Your Grace, but even they will not be happy to defend a king setting aside his wife for his lady aunt," Tywin said coolly.

Tyrion felt a wave of fury rush through him on Sansa's behalf at these words, glancing between Tywin and Joffrey with sudden understanding of why, in fact, he had been brought here, ignoring for the moment his surprise that Tywin was so ardently willing to defend Sansa.

Of course he was. It almost made sense, in a way. She was a Lannister by marriage, after all, and the key to the North. Tywin couldn't see her being raped by...

Tyrion stood abruptly to his feet, rounding on his nephew. "If you laid a hand on her-"

"I am the King!" Joffrey snapped, and then turned back to Tywin petulantly. "The realm dare not rebel against me."

"Do you know what the smallfolk call you, Your Grace?" Tywin asked. "The Second Mad King." He paused, lifted a brow. "Do you know what I did with the first?"

Joffrey's face twisted with rage. "It was Uncle Jaime's blade that ran the Mad King through," he snapped, jumping to his feet as well now. "For all he's useless now."

Behind them, Jaime muttered something that might have been, "I can still use a blade for that purpose just fine." Tyrion didn't quite dare to turn around and ask him for clarification on the statement.

Tywin lifted a brow at his grandson, unfazed. "It was my troops that took King's Landing, my help that allowed your miserable wretch of a father to ever father you, Your Grace."

Joffrey stared, flummoxed.

Tyrion found his voice, then, his face gone purple from what he had just come to understand as he leapt to his feet and rounded on the young king.

"If you think to continue to torment my wife in this manner, I'll make good on the promise I made to you at my wedding, and you can return to your wife and her needs this night with a wooden cock," Tyrion hissed.

Sansa may have grown rather dear to him in these recent months, but he knew that she was not dear to Tywin as anything more than a chess piece in his convoluted game, and so, whatever it was Joffrey had done to her, it must have been serious.

Serious enough to warrant dragging the king from his bed to remind him of his precarious position as a king.

Tyrion saw red.

Joffrey paled at the threat, and then turned crimson. "You were drunk, then!" he screeched. "You weren't anything more than drunk!"

"Was I, Your Grace?" Tyrion asked, almost conversationally. "Lady Sansa is my wife. I made a vow to protect her when I married her, and, as I understand it, that means even protecting her from you."

"The king can have what he likes if she gives herself to me freely," Joffrey spat. "And she's a little whore, Sansa Stark, just like her whore of an aunt was when she let Rhaegar Targaryen between her legs even though she belonged to my father-"

Tyrion slapped him.

The sound rang loudly in the otherwise silent chamber, and Joffrey stared at him in shock for a long moment; Tyrion had not slapped him since the riot in Flea Bottom, after all, half an age ago, and he had likely not expected another since.

He thought himself so above Tyrion now, after all, that he could dare to lay a hand on his wife.

"How dare you!" Joffrey shouted; Tyrion thought the veins on his neck might burst, with the way they were popping. "Uncle!" he yelled towards the door, where Jaime stood. "Bring me his head!"

Jaime didn't move from his spot guarding the door, and Joffrey stomped his foot, a child denied what he wanted in the heat of the moment, and very much reminded of it.

Tywin raised one perfectly sculpted brow. Tyrion felt a sudden stab of pity for the man's personal servant, for it had just occurred to Tyrion that the man's life must be hell. "A good king knows when not to show his hand, Your Grace."

Joffrey's mouth worked for a moment, opening and closing as he stared at his grandfather, and Tyrion reflected that it was good indeed that there was someone in this godsforsaken realm whom Joffrey genuinely feared.

It was rather a relief to know that some part of the little monster was still human, in that way.

"I'll write to Mother about this; just see if I don't!" he snapped.

Jaime snorted, by the door.

"Do you think that your mother will take your side?" Tywin asked dryly, then, "I dare say she is no stranger to the mistreatment you wish to heap on the Lady Sansa, for all that she has allowed you to torment the girl in the past."

Jaime stiffened suddenly, and before anyone could react in truth to Tywin's words, he turned and stalked out the door.

Tyrion almost couldn't blame him. He knew that Cersei and Robert's marriage had not altogether been happy, attributing this more to her predilection for her brother and Robert's for whores and drinking, but to hear their lord father openly acknowledge what he had once turned a blind eye on was sure to piss Jaime off.

Even if Tyrion couldn't quite find it within himself to feel sorry for Cersei, anymore.

Joffrey stomped his foot, like a child being sent to bed. "You...!" he seemed to have run out of steam, then, and Tywin stepped forward, glancing down his nose at his grandson.

"You are tired, Your Grace," Tywin told the King coolly. "You will go back to bed, without your queen, and think on what has transpired here. In the afternoon, and every day after, you will refrain from terrorizing your lady aunt, or I will have her removed from your presence, and give you a reminder of just what is owed you, as King of Westeros."

Joffrey seethed, looked ready to scream at his grandfather and shit himself from fear at the same time, before turning on his heel and stalking from the room.

As his cape flowed behind him, he looked rather too much like Jaime had, just moments ago, for Tyrion's taste.

"And you," Tywin rounded on Tyrion suddenly, "Will keep a better eye on your wife. We cannot trust Joffrey's self-control to last for long, after all, as you know very well. This cannot be allowed to escalate further than it has."

Tyrion licked his lips. "I will," he promised. "And what...will happen to the king if I should fail?"

A very morbid part of him desperately wanted to know, for all that he was resolved never to allow that to occur.

Tywin gave him a droll look. "Attend to your wife, Tyrion," he said finally, and Tyrion fled the room while he still had the chance to do so.

Chapter Text

Sansa’s septa had always told her that, when she finally became a woman, no longer a girl unspoiled, she would feel like an entirely different person, the feeling would be so wonderful.

The feelings she’d had while in Margaery’s bed had been wonderful, but she still felt like Sansa Stark.

Like a lighter, happier version of Sansa Stark, which she herself had not seen in some time, but still Sansa.

That lasted until just after noon, when Margaery had been gone for some hours but still managed to send one of her ladies to invite Sansa to "sewing" the next day, in Margaery's private chambers, and Shae had cleaned up all evidence of their coupling in her own.

And she had sent Sansa some lemon cakes, specially made simply because Margaery wanted to send them to her, and because they were Sansa's favorites.

Sansa lay on the bed and ate them, unable to keep the bright smile from her face as she did so, because even as she tried to concentrate on her food, all she could think of was Margaery, Margaery's lips against her skin, Margaery's hands on her body.

The smell of her, the taste of her...

Sansa ate them and tried not to think of the fluids she had wiped off her thighs in the bath Shae had prepared for her as lemon jam oozed from the little cakes, and couldn't bring herself to meet Shae's eyes after she had eaten.

She did very little that day, and found herself enjoy it, for while she was not sore from what had happened to her as she had heard could happen, but she felt oddly unable to do anything.

Mushy, too soft.

And then Tyrion returned to his chambers, stalking in like a fury, the door slamming shut behind him.

Sansa stood up from the bed where she and Margaery had just...been together, wiping down her gown and watching the crumbs from the lemon cakes fall to the ground in small clumps.

The peace was over, though Sansa supposed it had never truly been there, not really.

She glanced at Shae, who looked just as surprised as she. There was no way Tyrion could have found out the truth about she and Margaery so quickly, not really, and surely, even if he did, it wouldn't make him as angry as he currently looked-

"I just attended a meeting with my lord father," Tyrion said, going toward the wine flask at once, voice rather too light for the anger on his face, and Sansa found herself stiffening.

She glanced at Shae, remembered only a moment too late that Shae had no idea what was about to happen, had no idea why Tyrion meeting with his lord father just the morning after what had almost happened to Sansa might worry her.

"My lord-"

Tyrion took a long, stiff drink, and then sank down onto the sofa. "Has Joffrey raped you, Sansa?" he asked, voice still light.

Sansa sucked in a breath, took a slight step back before she knew what she was doing, but it was Shae who answered, Shae who spoke first.

"Tyrion!"

Tyrion shook his head, held up a hand to Shae. "Sansa."

"How dare you?" Shae demanded, stepping in between Sansa and Tyrion. "How dare you ask such a thing?"

"No," Sansa answered quietly, and Shae and Tyrion both jerked their heads toward her. "No," she repeated, a bit louder this time. "He hasn't raped me. Your father...Ser Jaime rescued me from it the other night."

Tyrion swore, the loud, vicious sort of swearing that Theon might have used when he thought Sansa wasn't around to overhear, or Robb, because he thought it made him something more of a man.

Tyrion's use of the crude word seemed far harsher and more terrifying than either of theirs.

"Sansa..." he said finally, standing and meeting her eyes. He was the first to look away.

Sansa stared at her husband, at the man she had tried so hard to shove from her thoughts ever since their marriage had begun, and even before then. The Imp, whose scarred face and mismatched eyes terrified her almost as much as Joffrey's beautiful, too fine features on most nights.

The man whose eyes had grown with concern for her since the day he had saved her from her most recent beating at Joffrey's hands, who had thrown his golden cloak over her shoulder and promised her his protection.

She hadn't been able to face those eyes for far too long, and it didn't seem right that she should face them now, when she had gone against her vows, however forced they might be, that she had made on her wedding night.

She felt the flash of guilt for doing so, for her mother and her septa's words on how she should treat her future husband, whoever they might be, had not quite left her mind, now that she was no longer intoxicated by the cloying presence of Margaery's skin against her own.

Not that she could bring herself to regret it as much as she knew she ought to.

"Why did you not come to me?" Tyrion asked then, as Sansa sank down onto the bed, hands cradled in front of her. He knelt before her, and Sansa stiffened, pretended she didn't see the flash of guilt on Tyrion's face as she did so.

"I..."

She couldn't say. In truth, she didn't know if she had an excuse that Tyrion would hear. A part of her had known she should go to her husband, that he had protected her against beatings and the like, and that he would protect her against this, as well.

But she'd pushed the feeling down, pushed it down each and every time she'd had a thought of it because a part of her also wasn't certain what he could do. A part of her remembered the way Joffrey had mocked and humiliated him at the wedding, and wondered if he could do anything for her.

A part of her had thought that Margaery would be able to do a better job of it, and Margaery was hardly able to do more than Sansa.

She swallowed, and Tyrion cleared his throat awkwardly, stood to his feet and moved away from her with hooded eyes.

His entire demeanor was more aloof when he next spoke. "Lady Sansa," he said quietly, eyes never meeting her own, "When I married you, I vowed to protect you. I took that vow...I am taking that vow seriously."

Sansa shook her head. "As seriously as you took all the vows you made as my husband?"

Tyrion blinked at her. "Lady Sansa," he repeated, "I made another vow on that night. That I would not force you. I will not become the monster you wish me to become."

Sansa sucked in a breath, glanced at Shae where she still stood in the corner, looking between Sansa and Tyrion with an unreadable expression.

Sansa stared at her husband for a long moment, found herself staring back down at her hands again. "I know that," she whispered finally, because the words needed to be said, because she did know it.

Because her husband wasn't the monster the rest of his family was, no matter what face he wore.

Tyrion cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. My lord father has spoken to Joffrey. He won't touch you again."

Sansa wondered how Lord Tywin could be so sure, and then snorted, saw the look on Tyrion's face and spoke. "You'll forgive me if the protection of a Lannister doesn't mean much to me."

Tyrion flinched, gave her a long look. "I understand that, Sansa. But it is this, or I will have to take you to the Rock, where you will be safe from Joffrey-"

Sansa stood abruptly. "My place is here, or in Winterfell, my lord. I will not go to the Rock."

She would not bend on that. She had no idea how she would keep from going to the Rock, whether she would grab onto the Iron Throne and hold onto it kicking and screaming if she had to while Tyrion dragged her from this place, but she would not go.

She would not go to the Rock, where there were more Lannisters than there were here. Where she would be even farther stuck as a prisoner of Joffrey, even if it was in name only.

Where she would be closer to Winterfell, which belonged to the Boltons now, a closer pawn for the Lannisters to prop up and remind everyone of their victory over the Starks, that one day they would have a Lannister in Winterfell.

Where she would be left to Tyrion Lannister's tender mercies, much as she might trust him here, where he was not within his own home.

She would go with Prince Oberyn to Dorne, a man she hardly knew but whom she believed had a peculiar sort of honor, and she would go with Margaery to Highgarden, she thought, but she would not go with Tyrion to Casterly Rock.

"Sansa, the Queen is no reason to remain in King's Landing," Tyrion said quietly. "I understand that you are...that you believe you are friends, but I do not think this friendship has kept you safe."

"Safe?" Sansa scoffed. "I am hardly safe in King's Landing, my lord. I am a Stark, and I am hardly safe anywhere in Westeros. Margaery is my friend."

It was Tyrion's turn to scoff, at that. "Lady Sansa...Margaery is Joffrey's wife."

Sansa swallowed. "What are you saying?" she demanded, for she owed him that much, after what she had just done.

Tyrion swallowed. "That, as Joffrey's wife and the Rose of Highgarden, she will always choose her House's needs before your own. And right now, those needs align with Joffrey's."

"Would you take from me my only friend in King's Landing, my lord?" Sansa demanded, her tone biting, and she pretended that she could not hardly breathe from hearing Tyrion's words.

Tyrion flinched, but regarded her steadily as he asked, "Is she your friend, Sansa?"

Sansa's eyes widened. "Yes."

Tyrion shook his head. "The wife of the King who wishes to have you at his mercy is your friend? I would rather say she is your competition, and cannot look upon you as anything but what she must get out of her way. Permanently, if she must."

Sansa slapped him. The reaction came instinctively, and she shrank back after she did so, eyes wide with horror even as Tyrion stared at her in muted surprise.

And then, he chuckled, low in his throat while he didn't quite dare to meet her gaze, reaching up and rubbing at his cheek. "That is...quite the hand you've got there, Lady Sansa."

She was tempted to slap him again at that, and found that she didn't quite dare. Instead, she turned on her heels and fled.

Sansa was not certain of where she was running until she opened her eyes and found that she was down the hall from Joffrey's quarters, in the king's wing of the Keep.

She passed one of the Kingsguard, who stared at her like he was wondering whether he ought to send her away or send her in for Joffrey to play with, and Sansa spun away, around a corner where he couldn't see her.

She knew she shouldn't be here, not so soon after the night before, not when the mental scars of what had almost happened to her by that point had not quite faded. Not when Joffrey was no doubt still there.

She stopped, stopped before she had quite made her way to that hall, leaned against the wall and lowered herself to her rump.

Swallowed hard, bit hard into the soft flesh of her wrist.

Too soft.

She wondered if Joffrey was in there fucking Margaery right now, so soon after they had...

The lemon cakes Margaery had sent her turned to stones in Sansa's stomach at the thought.

She didn't quite know when she had started crying, only knew that when she lifted her hand to her cheek, it was wet with tears.

Chapter Text

"Ser Boros," Sansa said, curtseying to the man to cover her own shock.

When Margaery had sent the missive letting Sansa know, in curved, flowery letters, that she would like to...have tea in her rooms in the Maidenvault, Sansa had jumped at the opportunity.

And usually, when said opportunity arose, Ser Loras was the one keeping guard over Westeros' queen, or she had found some way of eluding her Kingsguard.

And while Sansa certainly didn't want to think overly hard about who was standing outside the door when they were together, the thought that it might be someone who would hear them and do something to put a stop to their...activities was never far from her mind.

She did not think it far from Margaery's, either, although a part of her wondered if the other girl enjoyed that thought. Enjoyed it far more than she should, in fact.

Still, Ser Boros was Tywin's man, allowed to remain in the Kingsguard at Tywin Lannister's volition after Cersei accused him of endangering Prince Tommen's life, and while Tywin Lannister had kept Sansa safe from Joffrey, she doubted he would keep her safe from this.

"Lady Sansa," Ser Boros bowed curtly to her, and she tried not to think of the few times Joffrey had ordered him to beat her. He was a taciturn man, and Joffrey had not enjoyed the lack of expression on his face as he had obeyed the orders of his king the few times he had done so, Sansa thought.

"The Queen is expecting me," she informed him prettily, waiting.

Ser Boros gave her a long look, and for a moment she wondered if he suspected. But...no. No doubt the Kingsguard thought she and Margaery to be plotting some dastardly deeds, Tyrell plots against the Lannisters, but certainly not this.

He opened the door to Margaery's chambers, and she smiled at him again, stepped nimbly past him into the room.

The door slipped shut behind her.

Margaery was lying on her bed, dressed only in the sheer green robe she'd worn the other day, when Sansa had come here and they had finally reached an understanding.

Sansa had not realized how much she appreciated the view at the time, but she did now, watching Margaery leaf through a book with the title of Dance of Dragons written so prettily down the spine.

She stayed like that for a moment, admiring the view, before Margaery glanced up, a small smile moving across his face.

"Sansa," she said, the book spilling haphazardly into the sheets as she leapt to her feet and moved to join Sansa where she stood, clasping her hands as if they were a thousand times more valuable.

"A new book?" she asked, head tilting toward it.

Margaery glanced back, shrugged. "A gift from Joffrey," she said. "He does so enjoy his history." Her lips quirked in amusement.

Sansa bit her lip, didn't want to think about Joffrey, or his strange gifts. She had been no stranger to them herself, when she had been Joffrey's betrothed. Only, the gifts had been different, then. A necklace. A head.

She wrapped her arm around Margaery's back then, tangled her fingers in the smooth material of her robe and pulled the other girl closer.

Margaery seemed to get the hint, smirking for another reason now as she bent down and pressed her lips to Sansa's neck.

Sansa parted her lips and moaned at the sensation, having expected a kiss and finding this suddenly far superior, her eyes closing as she tilted her neck back to give the other girl more access.

And then she felt the heat from Margaery's body as she stepped closer into Sansa, as her fingers trailed down the material of Sansa's gown before reaching expertly for the ties, making short work of them as quickly as she could.

Sansa's eyes opened wide as Margaery's lips sucked more deeply, as she thought she might lose all sense as her veins beat out a hard rhythm under Margaery's tender ministrations.

"Margaery..." she whispered, lost focus as Margaery's lips trailed down from Sansa's neck to her now bared collar bone, as her fingers deftly pulled away the last ties of Sansa's gown and pushed it down to her waist.

Sansa's hands moved of their own accord, tangling in Margaery's robe once more before slipping it off of the other girl's shoulders, watching it tumble to the ground and pool there for a long moment before Margaery's lips reminded her that she couldn't quite think straight.

"Marg..." she gasped out, as one of Margaery's fingers lowered to the small of her back, pinching the skin there, "Bed."

Their feet tangled together as Sansa awkwardly marched Margaery backward to the bed, as Margaery's lips wrapped around her left nipple and sucked with all of the deftness of a newborn babe, and Sansa threw her head back and gasped even as she gently pushed Margaery down onto the sheets.

"Quieter, Sansa," she heard Margaery murmur beneath her, in between licking and sucking alternately at her breasts, until Sansa's nipples had both become hardened nubs that stung. "We don't want Ser Boros to hear."

The wetness that had been gathering between Sansa's thighs felt abruptly too dry, and the heat gathering in her stomach diminshed at the reminder of the man standing right outside their door.

At the remider that the man guarding Margaery was doing so because she was Joffrey's wife.

Margaery paused in her ministrations, glancing up at Sansa with wide, clear eyes. "Is something wrong?"

Sansa shook her head, leaned down and kissed Margaery once more. By the low noise Margaery made in the back of her throat, she certainly enjoyed it.

Sansa lifted her knees up haphazardly onto the bed, allowed Margaery to pull her down onto the sheets as she trailed kisses down the other girl's throat, not quite as skilled as Margaery had done for her, but by the look on Margaery's face, she did not think the other girl minded overmuch.

She didn't quite know when they had fallen evenly onto the bed, but then Margaery's lips were finding their way down Sansa's chest again, tongue jutting out to lick a small stripe under Sansa's breast.

Sansa bit into one of the sheets to keep from crying out and attracting Ser Boros' attentions, as they would hardly be able to disguise what they were doing should he walk into the room now, the both of them completely nude and Margaery destroying her on the queen's bed.

Margaery's tongue licked at her again, and Sansa's teeth clicked together uncomfortably in her attempt to stay silent, before she moaned, "Oh gods, Margaery..."

"What do you want, Sansa?" Margaery whispered into the shell of her ear, and Sansa shivered.

"I...I want..." She couldn't think. Couldn't understand what Margaery was saying to her in this moment, wondered if she might black out again from the pleasure as she had last time.

A lick. "What do you want?" A pant.

Sansa suddenly very much knew what she wanted, and she let her fingers tangle in the smooth tresses of Margaery's hair, guiding the other girl's head downward, as Sansa pretended to ignore Margaery's impish grin.

Margaery's mouth trailed kissed down Sansa's stomach, her thighs, teeth grazing against Sansa's inner left thigh before Sansa had finally pulled Margaery's head to where she wanted it, and then Margaery glanced up at her, eyes hooded.

Sansa swallowed hard, one hand reaching out to brush at Margaery's pull, almost pouting lips.

"I want your mouth," Sansa panted. "Please."

Margaery did not need further encouragement, and a moment later, Sana felt the sweet, almost gentle kiss of Margaery's lips against her womanhood, and she threw her head back as Margaery pushed closer, as her hands forced Sansa's thighs apart in a move that was almost startling in its quickness.

Sansa's head fell against the sheets beneath her and for a moment she thought she would black out again, that Margaery would destroy her once more, but she somehow managed to regain he grasp on reality just in time to feel Margaery's lips part and her tongue press more deeply into Sansa's wet heat.

"Gods..." Sansa whispered again, fingers digging into the sheets for something to grab onto, and then finding this insufficient and reaching for Margaery's hair once more.

The thickness of it, the softness of it, was strangely alluring in this moment, in a way it had never been before, and Sansa closed her eyes, lost herself to the sensations in a way she had never allowed herself to do before Margaery had entered her life like this.

Margaery's fingers, where they dug into Sansa's thighs, squeezed her suddenly, and Sansa stuttered out a groan, wondered if the gods had sought to simply torture her for the rest of her life.

If she did not cry out soon, she thought she might burst into Margaery's mouth without ever giving the other girl so much as a warning.

And then Margaery's teeth brushed deeply within her, and Sansa had to choke on the sheets to keep herself from screaming.

Margaery lifted her head, smirked at Sansa, and Sansa groaned, reached out and pushed the other girl back down out of sheer desperation.

She heard Margaery chuckling again, before the other woman's lips sealed around her once more.

It was almost like a game, Sansa thought idly, attempting to stay quiet with the knowledge that Ser Boros was on the other side of that door.

The Queen would never have privacy. She would never be able to be alone with Sansa, to do the sort of things that they wanted to do in the sure knowledge that someone would not walk in on them at any moment and see them killed for it.

And while a part of Sansa rebelled strongly against that thought, a part of her couldn't be compelled to care, as she muffled her cries into the bed sheets and jerked her hips up into Margaery's mouth, bit down hard on the flesh of her wrist when she thought the noises that might erupt from her might be more telling.

She thought Margaery might enjoy it, the sight of her, so close to losing all control but maintaining it nonetheless, and so it didn't seem quite so like the hardship Sansa was sure it would be when Ser Boros had let her into the room.

And, as Margaery's tongue fucked in and out of her as Sansa's fingers tangled in the other girl's hair, Sansa's gaze flicked over to the cover of the book still sitting on its spine on the corner of Margaery's bed.

Sansa came minutes later with a muffled cry, face blooming with embarrassment as Ser Boros knocked on the door and asked his queen if everything was all right.

Margaery lifted her head, mouth still wet with Sansa's essence, even as she called out with a lightly amused voice, "We're just fine in here, Ser Boros. Lady Sansa merely stabbed herself on a needle."

She glanced back at Sansa, who snorted and turned on her side, buried her face in the sheets.

Margaery was there again in a moment, kissing her way down Sansa's cheek until the other girl turned and gave her more access, let Margaery kiss her nose and then her lips and chin with a reverence Sansa couldn't help but wonder if she had ever bothered to show Joffrey.

This wasn't a competition, she reminded herself, kissing Margaery back, sweet, slow kisses unlike what they had just done, the act still causing her to blush.

Joffrey didn't even know about her, and Margaery cared for Sansa much more than she would ever care for her monster of a husband, as she had made very clear.

And Sansa could not care less about Joffrey, if it meant seeing Margaery like this.

And then Sansa glanced between them with a blush, because she knew that Margaery cared about her but she wished that such things could be good for Margaery, as well.

"I don't know what to..." she shook her head, gestured between them.

Margaery smiled rather widely, took Sansa's face in her hands and kissed her once more. "You needn't worry about that, my sweet girl," she said, the words sounding like a promise. "I was...quite affected by you."

Sansa was sure she was blushing crimson now, but Margaery merely chuckled again and kissed her once more.

And later, when they were lying in the bed, tangled in the sheets and one another, Ser Boros still standing outside, Sansa sighed delightedly, having almost forgotten Joffrey altogether.

Almost.

There was a knock to the door again, Ser Boros informing them that he was taking his leave and that Ser Loras was replacing him, Margaery calling out that that was fine.

Sansa sighed, burrowed a bit more deeply into the other girl in an effort to keep Margaery from pulling away, if she was tempted by the thought of her brother outside.

"I wish we could go away somewhere," Sansa whispered, wrapping her legs around Margaery's own as she nestled into Margaery's side, tracing the little mark on Margaery's back that she had found that afternoon, another symbol of Joffrey's undying love for his beloved wife.

Sometimes, seeing them made Sansa want to scream, though she knew that the marks on her own back were even more prominent and must frustrate Margaery, as well.

She didn't ask, though, why Margaery had not brought them up since the day she had helped to clean Sansa's back of the strokes Margaery herself had given her. Perhaps she thought Sansa wouldn't want to hear them mentioned.

Margaery chuckled, turned onto her back to face Sansa, smiling prettily. "And where might we go?" she asked.

Sansa shrugged, tried not to think of the warm summer breezes and soft sand of a place she had never even been. She knew that there was bad blood between the Tyrells and the Martells, even if she did not know the full story.

Knew that, not days after the Martell party had arrived in King's Landing, Lady Olenna had outright called Ellaria Sand a whore.

She knew that Margaery Tyrell would never go to Dorne, not with her, not if it meant giving up her crown.

And that thought stung, reminded Sansa of the other day, when she had found herself outside Joffrey's chambers, her mind's eye providing all too vivid images of what he was no doubt doing to his bride.

Margaery sat up then, peppered Sansa's nose with kisses. "I hate it when you look so sad," the other girl whispered. "I hated it when I first arrived in King's Landing, and I hate it now." She swallowed. "We'll figure something out. Perhaps Highgarden, like I suggested so long ago."

Sansa remembered what Tyrion had told her about that idea. "You don't have an heir. Tywin Lannister will never let you go."

And Sansa did not know if she would quite be able to forgive Margaery for leaving any heir to Joffrey's tender mercies, even if it meant the two of them could escape to Highgarden together.

Margaery sighed, flopping back down onto the bed. "I know," she said softly. "And I hate this sneaking about as much you do, I think," she said softly, hand reaching out and squeezing Sansa's. "But it's all we've got, and I wouldn't give it up." She glanced askance at Sansa. "Would you?"

Sansa swallowed hard, bent down to kiss her again, thought of the warmth of the Dornish, the fabled warmth and freedom of Dorne.

"Of course not," she lied, and wondered what it was about lying, that doing so was far easier when one did not have to look their victim in the face.

Chapter Text

"A few more documents for the King to sign," Lord Mace said, presenting them with a soft thud on the table of the Small Council, and Lord Tywin nodded, picking them up and sifting through them with a detached expression.

"He will see them," Tywin promised.

Tyrion could not quite contain himself, then. He had been waiting for several days, after all, to see what it was Tywin had planned as a punishment for Joffrey, in lieu of asking his father.

"And where is the king today, my lord father?" Tyrion asked, withholding a smirk.

Their good Queen Margaery was usually very good about making sure Joffrey came to every meeting these days, and he didn't know if it was because she found her own father's information insufficient in manipulating Joffrey or because she genuinely thought she might reform Joffrey into a king who knew anything about his realm.

He wished her luck in both endeavors.

But neither one of them were here today, and Lord Mace did not look especially angry about anything, leaving Tyrion to wonder.

Tywin gave him a long look, and then spoke to the table at large. "The King will not be joining the meetings of the Small Council."

Tyrion raised a brow. "Permanently?"

Tywin's eyes now turned to him, cold as ever. "The King has proven himself unable to deal with the responsibilities allotted to him here, and has gladly handed them over to the jurisdiction of his Hand for the immediate future."

Oberyn cleared his throat, looked rather amused. "And will the King have any responsibilities, or will the Hand be...handling all of them, for the...immediate future?"

Tyrion snorted.

Tywin gave his son a hard look, and then glanced at Oberyn. "The King and his queen have yet to have an heir, and his focus must, of course, be on that, for the good of the realm."

Lord Mace looked less than pleased at the reminder, but the conversation topic was soon dropped for the more important matter of where exactly Stannis Baratheon was currently.

Tyrion barely paid attention to that, though, as he usually did. His thoughts were only on why his lord father had done this, so openly punished Joffrey, and what else he had done, not only to punish his grandson, but to confirm Joffrey's compliance in going along with it.

Everyone knew that Joffrey was scared shitless of Tywin Lannister, and with good reason, Tyrion couldn't help but think, but this was quite a different matter entirely.

The moment the King let on that his Hand had the power over him to take over his judicial duties as king, he no longer was one, as Tyrion's maester had once pounded into his head.

He wondered if Joffrey would even be allowed to preside over his little court or sit on the Iron Throne, before he remembered that that had been where Sansa had been beaten the most, before their marriage.

He suddenly very much doubted it, though he had to admit his father's sudden concern over Sansa Stark was...confusing.

He had to have known the shit she had gone through before their marriage, and certainly had not acted as though he cared a whit about Sansa when he married her off to his dwarf son, and yet here he was now, defending her honor before the King.

Even if he was not defending it as well as he might have, sending Jaime away to deal with the Iron Islands alongside the Tyrells when he was their man in the Kingsguard.

But then, perhaps Tywin wanted no reminder of his son's influence in the Kingsguard, while Jaime remained in the Kingsguard.

A stray memory, one he couldn't quite place, leapt to the forefront of his mind, his aunt Genna Lannister talking about his lady mother, clamping up when she mentioned Joanna Lannister's time as a lady to Queen Rhaella before moving on to the much safer topic of how she was the love of his father's life, and he glanced at his father again, frowning.

He wondered if Lord Tywin was getting more enjoyment out of this transition of all of the King's power more directly to himself than Tyrion had originally thought he was. And everyone knew how Tywin enjoyed taking power for himself.

"And you, Master of Coin?" Prince Oberyn's voice spoke up suddenly, and Tyrion blinked, flushed when he realized he hadn't been paying attention to the conversation at all, feeling very much like a child before his maester. "Do you have an opinion on how to sway the Iron Bank away from Stannis Baratheon?"

Tyrion glanced up, saw the amused slant of Prince Oberyn's lips and the disapproving look in his father's eyes, though he supposed the latter could be there for any number of reasons.

"Stannis Baratheon has managed to sway the Iron Bank, as you put it, because King Joffrey has not paid his debts," Tyrion said lightly, landing on his feet as he always did, "But I don't think even they want to live in a world where Stannis Baratheon succeeds at taking the Iron Throne."

His father raised an imperious brow. "You think they are baiting us." It was not quite a question.

Tyrion shrugged. "I think they know we can be expected to pay our debts," he said, smirking as he incorporated their house's motto into his words.

For once, Tywin looked less than pleased to hear it. "While Stannis Baratheon wanders the wastelands of the North," he muttered, and Tyrion nodded. "I see."

The conversation of the Small Council veered toward other matters after that, how to roust Stannis out of the North and defeat him, as they all knew the Battle of Blackwater was a bit of a fluke victory that might not be repeated another time, and Tyrion breathed a sigh of relief.

At the end of it, however, he found himself the last to go, and Oberyn Martell was waiting outside the doors of the Small Council with a smirk on his face, arms crossed over his broad chest.

"I was wondering if you might permit me to take Lady Sansa into the city again soon," Prince Oberyn told him, leaning against the wall in an almost languid pose. "Her gowns seem woefully Northern, for having remained in the South so long."

He should have known, and Tyrion confessed himself suddenly very glad indeed that Sansa had, however angrily, informed him that she would be spending the entire day with her friend, Queen Margaery, sewing and having tea, the moment that Margaery was available.

He knew she'd said the words to spite him, and he'd winced at the time, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care now, for no doubt that was exactly where she was, considering that Queen Margaery had not been here.

But that was...an almost diplomatic way of putting things, Tyrion decided, squinting at Prince Oberyn. He was well aware of the tragic state of his wife's attire, owing to the fact that Cersei had never bothered to add to it since Joffrey had cut off Ned Stark's head.

He had attempted to broach the topic with Sansa himself, but she regarded him as if he was merely taking the clothes he might buy her off of her in his mind already, and she was already wearing far too many Tyrell colors for his comfort.

"You have been spending rather a lot of time around my lady wife recently," Tyrion pointed out, unable to hold the words back.

Oberyn gave him a roguish grin. "I have done nothing which she has not wanted, Lord Tyrion."

And that was the last straw, for the words reminded Tyrion of what Sansa had said to him, of how she had slapped him even after he had told her he would never take from her that which she was unwilling to give, wife or no.

He turned around, gave Oberyn a long, hard look. The roguish smile faded.

"I will thank you to remember that I am a Lannister, Your Highness," Tyrion said coldly. "And that that is my wife you are speaking of."

Oberyn took a step forward, pushing off the wall to stare at Tyrion like he was something Oberyn Martell had never seen before, was fascinated by.

"And do you hate your family as much as she does, Tyrion Lannister?"

Tyrion blinked at him in surprise, even as Oberyn's expression crinkled into one of amusement.

"Do I hate my..." he cleared his throat. "I suspect that there is no one who could hate the Lannisters as much Sansa Stark, my lord, though you are welcome to try."

The amusement was gone as quickly as it had come, and Oberyn's arms recrossed over his chest once more. "I suspect that is true, Lord Tyrion," he said quietly, dark eyes searching for something Tyrion couldn't quite know. "But I do not think you love them as much as you claim, or they you."

Tyrion shrugged. "They are my family," he said lightly, but Oberyn shook his head.

"Jaime Lannister, perhaps, who does not possess enough guile to be as his twin, the Dowager Queen, or as cold as Tywin Lannister, or as mad as...Joffrey Lannister."

Tyrion stiffened, all worries for Sansa's virtue in this moment shattered.

He had thought that Oberyn was here to court Lady Sansa, to drag the daughter of Winterfell to King's Landing to be used against the Lannisters.

It had not occurred to him that Oberyn had grown close to her to get to him.

He wondered what the man's strategy was. Alienating Tyrion from the rest of the Lannisters with the knowledge that he was being cuckold by the Prince of Dorne, that he was risking the North. He would humiliate House Lannister and, if Prince Oberyn happened to...abscond with Lady Sansa, lose them the North.

But the snakes in the South did not care about the North, far removed from them as it was, when all they had ever wanted was the ability to rule themselves, as anyone who opened a history book, and Tyrion had opened many in his lonely childhood, knew.

They did not care about the petty disputes about who could claim a barren, snow-covered rock, nor about who could get a young girl with child.

They cared about their own. They cared about Elia Martell, brutally murdered on what Tyrion knew had been Tywin's orders.

And Tyrion should never have forgotten that.

Oberyn Martell simply hadn't realized that Tywin Lannister cared very little about whether or not Sansa Stark was full of child, as indeed Tyrion himself had not understood.

Tyrion could only wonder why Oberyn Martell had given away the game so quickly. Wonder what Sansa had told him, about her lord husband, to make him believe he could get away with it.

"I believe you are mistaken, my lord," Tyrion said, voice firm and light as he could manage, "Our king's name is Joffrey Baratheon."

Oberyn snorted. "Indeed."

Tyrion stepped nimbly backwards. "I do believe the Crown my father made some decisions concerning the issue of money in there today, and that I should probably get back to it..."

Oberyn stepped forward. "The Crown your father," he repeated, and Tyrion bit the inside of his cheek at the turn of phrase he should not have used. "How conveniently things have turned out for him. I remember a previous king who would not give him the time of day when he wanted to claw his way to power."

Tyrion swallowed, remembered plots to marry Cersei to Prince Rhaegar, and remembered his Aunt Genna's cryptic words.

"My father is very....stubborn," he said, flashed a quick smile. "Like most of his children."

Oberyn raised a brow. "Well, if he enjoys the role so much, perhaps there are still some ways in which he might bend," he said quietly. "Tell your father that if he gives Dorne the Mountain for justice, House Martell will be satisfied with the debt House Lannister owes us. He has refused me thus far, but I will have what I desire one way or another. A stronger alliance will simply help the Crown, seeing as Princess Myrcella still makes her home in Dorne."

And Tyrion knew that threat was true, just as he knew that his father would never hand Gregor Clegane over to Oberyn, not while the man still breathed.

Not when it was clearly Oberyn's aim to know who had given Gregor Clegane the orders to kill Princess Elia and her children.

And while he knew that the Dornish would not dare to harm Princess Myrcella, the threat had been clear enough.

He had arranged for that marriage, after all. And while Cersei had called him a heatless monster for sending away her daughter, he did care about Myrcella.

"And will they be?" he asked.

Oberyn cocked his head. "Will they be, what?"

"Satisfied," Tyrion asked. "Will House Martell be satisfied with that?"

Oberyn gave him a long look, and then shrugged. "That depends on how much you hate your father, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion swallowed thickly. "I will...I will pass that along, Prince Oberyn."

For all that it would matter. The real message, that he did not want her to spend time around Prince Oberyn now either, would likely not go over well with his stubborn wife.

Stubborn as any lion, at any rate.

He gulped, and wondered if, even if he explained to her why Prince Oberyn was no longer allowed in her company, she would care.

As he had told Oberyn, there was no one in Westeros whom he believed had greater cause to watch House Lannister burn.

Chapter Text

"Margaery!" Sansa cried out, her body spasming beautifully beneath Margaery's hands, but Margaery could barely withhold a groan of frustration.

She loved this, loved the feel of Sansa Stark under her fingers, beautiful and wanton, loved listening to the other girl's harsh pants and pleased cries and knowing that Margaery and Margaery alone had brought them on, that they were finally together here after so many months of playing a game of push and pull with one another.

But she wanted so much more, wanted to be able to do the sort of things with Sansa that she'd done with so many other girls before her, the things that progressed beyond Margaery's fingers and tongues and sweet kisses, much as she enjoyed watching Sansa come undone beneath her tender ministrations.

Elinor kept warning her that it doubtless wasn't safe, that they wouldn't know for sure unless they had a maester examine her again, and those words were said rather stiffly, because they both remembered how that had gone the last time.

It annoyed Margaery that neither of them knew how far she could go, although Elinor had told her that perhaps she could experiment with herself, find out if it hurt to do so, and use that as her answer.

After all, as Elinor had put it, she was far too stubborn to confide in Sansa about what had happened, and it would not do to stop halfway through relations with the other girl if she did not want to speak of it.

Sansa might take it as a rejection, and Margaery never wanted to give her that impression.

She sighed as Sansa came onto her fingers, knew that Sansa would not hear it over her own strangled cry of ecstasy, and focused on Sansa once more, watched as her eyes closed and her mouth opened wide, and lost herself in Sansa, bent down to kiss her again, to tangle her fingers in Sansa's thick hair and pull her up until they were both sitting on Margaery's bed, the one Joffrey never fucked his queen in.

Margaery loved that, just as she loved watching Sansa come undone and knowing that only she would be so fortunate as to have the honor to see it. Not Lord Tyrion, not Joffrey, not anyone else.

As she understood it, Sansa had told Lord Tyrion that they would be having tea together and would be sewing as well, and Margaery had laughed when Sansa told her as much.

She still wasn't certain about Sansa's maid, and where her loyalties lay, but Sansa had assured her that Shae had promised she would tell no one, and that she believed the other woman.

And while many of the court seemed to believe Sansa to be a naive little girl, Margaery had found that she had little reason to trust anyone, and would likely not do so without good reason.

Still, the thought of some maid who slept with a Lannister lord and even Elinor knowing about their secret made Margaery uneasy.

She knew what this was. Knew that if anyone learned that the wife of the King was sleeping with his aunt...

"Oh, Seven, Margaery..."

Margaery swallowed, glanced down at Sansa once more, smiled as Sansa came completely undone before her.

And then Sansa reached up and pulled Margaery down for another kiss, and she promptly forgot her frustrations, lost in the sensation of Sansa's soft lips against her own.

Kissing Sansa felt different than kissing anyone else had ever felt for Margaery, and she did not think that she would ever tire of it. It was not just that Sansa's lips were soft and tasted forever of lemon cakes, nor that Sansa was always so...eager, for a girl whom, when Margaery had first met her, she had thought already half-dead.

It was something else, something that made Sansa's lips sweeter than Elinor's, something that made Margaery want to devour them, and something which Margaery did not dare to give name to.

And when they both came, moments later, when Margaery had sucked her way along Sana's lips and down to the base of her throat, and Sansa was gasping so beautifully beneath her, Margaery forgot that she'd even a moment ago wanted for more than she now had.

Because now, in this moment, it was enough.

They fell panting onto the bed a moment later, Margaery staring at Sansa's enflamed nipples and wanting nothing more than to wrap her lips around them in turn, to stick her fingers back into the warm red folds of Sansa's womanhood and-

"You're sure Joffrey won't need you for the rest of the day?" Sansa asked anxiously, having clearly recovered her wits.

Margaery groaned, flopping her face down into one of the pillows. "It certainly ruins the mood, when you bring up Joffrey, Sansa," she complained, and Sansa laughed lightly, but still waited, crossing her arms now over her naked chest.

Margaery sighed. "I meant it. Joffrey will not be bothering us anytime soon."

Sansa raised a brow. "I don't understand. Surely he would not approve of this."

Margaery scoffed. "Are you planning on telling him?" Her expression softened, and she leaned forward, kissed Sansa on the nose. "He doesn't have to."

Sansa blinked at her. "Margaery."

Margaery sighed, reached out to squeeze her hand. "Joffrey and I...haven't shared a bed since the night he almost..." she glanced away.

She didn't want to remind Sansa of that night, just as she never wished to be reminded of the day Ser Osmund Kettleblack had found his way into her chambers. The duvet that had been on her bed that day had been burned. The same had happened to the sheets and duvet which had been there the day of the...

Sansa sat up abruptly. "I don't want you getting into trouble on my account, Margaery. That was the whole point of why we-" she gestured around helplessly.

Margaery gave her a suddenly intense look. "It wasn't my doing," she said, shrugging one shoulder, and watched as the expression on Sansa's face changed, from worry to surprise.

Sansa gaped at her, no doubt realizing why they'd had so much...time together recently, uninhibited as it had been, and then her mouth abruptly clicked shut before she swallowed.

"I had no idea my comfort was worth so much to Tywin Lannister," she said quietly, and Margaery snorted.

"Public embarrassment is worth a lot to Tywin Lannister, and I think he has finally reached the end of his patience, where Joffrey is concerned."

Sansa gave her a long look. "Is it true?" she asked quietly. "Could we...finally be safe from Joffrey's vindictiveness, at least for a while?"

Margaery swallowed hard, remembering Joffrey’s anger earlier when he had returned to her after his meeting with Lord Tywin, how he had thrown several chairs against the wall while Margaery calmly sipped her wine, reminding herself that to react would be to show herself a prey for the wicked boy.

She had still wondered, though, if he might turn his anger upon her when he was done. If he might hurt her for the sake of it, and in a way that she would not be able to bring herself to enjoy.

Was it wrong of her, that her first thought was to whether or not it would frighten Sansa away, to see those marks on her as Margaery had seen them on Sansa, not so long ago? Old now, but still too frighteningly there.

She didn't want anything to frighten Sansa away, and she was willing to do whatever it took to ensure that it did not.

She had worried, at first that his anger might be because he had somehow found out about what she and Sansa had done, that Tyrion Lannister’s maid had passed along the information, impossible though it would have been for her to have done so so quickly.

Margaery had not liked to admit that she was panicking, in that moment.

It was impossible, of course; she knew that the sweetsleep she had poured into his wine the night before had done its job, and he should not have woken until after she had already left Sansa's chambers and gone to sew with some of the Lannister women, for an alibi.

She was fortunate that the gods had not seen fit to present her with a smarter husband.

Renly hadn't been very smart, either, but he'd been a full maester compared to Joffrey, and sometimes Margaery found herself missing the simplicity of being Renly's wife, who never wanted to fuck her because he was fucking her brother and who didn't know the first thing about being a king beyond looking fine while he pretended.

But that wasn’t what Joffrey had been angry about, as it had turned out.

Tywin had forbidden the King from being alone with his wife, among other things.

She was almost touched, and grateful for the relief, even if she could not help but think that the great game master had not quite thought this through. She was the only one who could keep a handle on Joffrey, as had been so clearly shown before her arrival here.

If they pulled her away now, there was no telling what he might do, and surely Tywin was not so prideful that he did not realize that.

Her lord father already asked her once a week about her moon's blood, growing desperate now, it seemed, for his daughter to be filled with the king's son.

She smiled down at Sansa, wondered if her expression looked forced. “For now,” she whispered, and kissed Sansa again.

Although Jaime Lannister was gone now, no longer the protector for Sansa that Margaery had been depending upon, at the very least Tywin had ensured that he had taken Joffrey’s favorite Kingsguard with him.

Margaery remembered one of her ladies mentioning that when they'd gotten her ready for supper, relieved, but had not realized it was a punishment against Joffrey.

Ser Jaime had left King's Landing just that morning, to meet with the men of the Reach under her brother who were setting off to deal with the Iron Islands. It had been a rather abrupt departure, but she understood that Brienne of Tarth had gone with him, along with half a dozen gold cloaks and Ser Meryn Trant.

She was not unhappy to see Ser Meryn go, even if she was rather infuriated that her new ally in protecting Sansa was gone, for the gods knew how long.

She just wondered how long it would last, this fragile peace that Tywin Lannister had bought for them by disciplining his grandson.

As she glanced down at Sansa once more, staring up at her with wide, doe-like eyes, cheeks flushed, mouth parted sensuously, Margaery decided that it didn’t matter.

So long as she took advantage of that peace for as much as she could, now.

She moved her hips down to brush against Sansa’s thighs as her mouth traced its way down Sansa’s beautiful, pale body.

And Margaery wondered if this time, she might make Sansa scream into the pillows, where only Margaery could hear her.

Chapter Text

It was another day for the king's subjects to come before him with their grievances, an activity which Joffrey took most seriously out of all of his duties, or perhaps the only duty which he took seriously.

Sansa had been avoiding them for a long time now, ever since she had seen how Margaery playacted here, pretended to be so pleased every time Joffrey pronounced his cruelties on some poor soul.

But her lord husband had hinted that perhaps this one was one Sansa would want to see, though he said nothing further on the matter and still seemed quite certain that she wanted nothing more than to stab him in his sleep.

He had returned to the sofa again, as uncomfortable as it must have been for him to sleep on, and left her to the bed last night.

In truth, Sansa did not overmuch mind. Those first few nights of their marriage when they had shared a bed, she had been terrified that he would roll over and take his want of her, but she knew he would not, now, however much he was annoyed by her friendship with Margaery.

And besides, the last few days that she had spent in Margaery's bed had...certainly cooled her anger toward her lord husband, even if it had also reminded her that he was essentially as powerless here as she had suspected, not even able to keep his wife from what she wanted, much less Joffrey.

For the first time in a long time, she was glad of Tywin Lannister's protection.

Still, Tyrion's words to her, that whatever it was happening in the throne room, it was something she would want to see, had caused her heart to leap into her throat as she worried over what that might mean.

Arya had been found. Jon's head had been brought from the Wall. Winterfell had been burned to the ground because she had yet to give the Lannisters a son to claim it.

And so she was not at all prepared for the sight which greeted her when her lord husband escorted her into the throne room.

Was not at all prepared to see Lord Tywin taking his seat on the Iron Throne, and hearing the peoples' grievances.

Sansa's breath caught in her throat, and she glanced over at her lord husband incredulously, only to find him smirking at her. Clearly, he had known that this was what they were going to find.

She was almost tempted to be angry with him, for raising what were clearly her unfounded fears, but she found that she was too amused to do so.

Much as she hated the Lannisters for everything they had done to her, had done to her family, it was amusing indeed to watch them turn against Joffrey for her sake, though she had no doubt Lord Tywin had done it for more than that.

After all, there were very few people allowed to sit in the king's chair, uncomfortable though it looked.

"Is the king sick?" Sansa asked rather loudly, turning back to Tyrion.

He snorted at her inelegance, as he always did. She was glad he was finding this as amusing as she. "No, my lady. The King is not sick."

Sansa hummed in the back of her throat. "Then where is he?"

Her husband shrugged. "I do believe he is nearby, my lady. The Hand has forbidden him from leaving the Keep for his own protection, so I doubt there shall be any more hunting excursions for some time."

Sansa snorted, wandered away from her lord husband and the almost boring issues being brought to Lord Tywin's attention, when they did not have the dramatic ends that Joffrey's decisions always met.

Wandered past nobles who looked at her as they always had; something beneath their shoes that they should not acknowledge, for fear or bringing the wrath of the Lannisters for daring to befriend her.

Margaery and Lord Baelish had been the only two, besides Tyrion and Shae out of necessity, who had ever bothered to look past that, who had ever disregarded the whispering words of those who would disapprove of their offers of friendship.

Lord Baelish was in the Eyrie now, with her lady aunt, and Margaery...well, Sansa did not think what now occurred between the two of them could be called 'friendship' in anything but the loosest sense.

And she could not find Margaery anywhere, but Sansa did find Joffrey, in one of the outer audience halls, two of his Kingsguard flanking him, and looking rather annoyed at the world.

Margaery was not with her lord husband, though Sansa did not have to wonder at why, after what Margaery had told her. If Lord Tywin had engineered a way for king and queen to stay apart without it looking like the queen's doing, Sansa did not think she would have passed up such an opportunity, either.

There were, however, a few dozen courtiers in this room, those who had sought out their king the moment they realized Lord Tywin was not taking over his duties because he was in any way ill, at least not any more so than he ever was, and Sansa found herself heavily aware of all of their eyes as she moved forward to make her required greetings to the king.

"Your Grace," Sansa curtseyed, and Joffrey eyed her, a look of malice there that Sansa did not like, though, to her surprise, he said only,

"My lady aunt," and nodded to her, once, curtly. Docile as a kitten, for all that the smouldering in his eyes promised more.

Sansa blinked at him, swallowed rather nervously, even as her lord husband reached up and took her arm, appearing out of nowhere and securing it rather firmly in her own.

"Your Grace," Tyrion said coldly, and then started to turn away, dragging Sansa along with her.

But Sansa's brow furrowed, as she thought about what Margaery had told her, that Joffrey would not be bothering them again for the foreseeable future. What Tyrion had told her, that Tywin Lannister would not allow it.

And she carefully extricated her arm from Tyrion's reach, turned around to smile waspishly at her king.

"Your Grace," she said, ignoring Tyrion's hissed, "Sansa," from behind her.

Joffrey glanced up, eyebrows raising. "Lady Aunt," he repeated, sounding rather annoyed at her continued presence, this time.

Sansa smiled too sweetly, curtseyed, glanced around. "Your Grace," she repeated, "You are not sitting on the Iron Throne."

Joffrey blinked at her. "No," he said, eyes narrowing. "I do not have to sit on it every day for it to remain mine, Lady Aunt."

That got laughter from the courtiers now crowding about them, and Sansa's smile grew, even as she felt Lord Tyrion's large hand close around her own behind her.

"But I understand that today is the day when the smallfolk and others bring their issues before the King," Sansa continued innocently. "And yet you are here, and the Lord Hand sits on the Iron Throne."

"Sansa," she heard Tyrion hiss behind her, worry coloring his voice.

Joffrey gaped at her for a moment, eyes wide enough to see the whites of them, and Sansa found herself wondering when had been the last time she had seen Joffrey close enough to see the whites of his eyes.

And then he raised his arm, and Tyrion fell silent behind her as it lifted to backhand her, as Sansa lifted her chin and waited for the blow to strike.

But it never did.

Sansa waited, forcing herself not to flinch, not to give him the satisfaction, watched as Tyrion came astride with her with a murderous look in his mismatched eyes, and Joffrey lowered his arm, swallowing hard.

Sansa released a breath she hadn't known she was holding as Joffrey stepped back, arm lowered to his side now, held there as if he was afraid he might lose it if he lifted it altogether.

There was still anger in Joffrey's cold eyes now, but he was tempering it now, much to Sansa's delight.

"You are mistaken, Lady Sansa," Joffrey said stiffly.

Sansa knew she should keep quiet. Instead, she raised one brow, as delicately as Cersei, and asked primly, "Oh?"

Beside her, she thought she heard Tyrion make a strangled noise.

"Lord Tywin is continuing the interests of the Crown, so that his king may deal with...matters he deems more important," Joffrey wheedled, and Sansa bit the inside of her cheek.

"And what matters would those be, my lord?" she asked, because Sansa Stark felt heady in this moment. Joffrey could not even hit her. Not here, in front of so many people who were loyal to the Lannisters.

She bit back a hysterical laugh.

Joffrey glared at her.

And that was when Tyrion took Sansa's arm again. "Your Grace, my wife is very tired after the night of...pleasure we had last night," he said, rather loudly.

Joffrey eyed the two of them, glanced around at the many people watching.

Those people would not soon forget this, Sansa knew. And nor would Joffrey, for she knew how he hated to be made to look weak, hated to mocked.

And, King of Westeros or not, in this moment, he could do nothing about it, and Sansa was the one holding that power over him.

And while Sansa knew that she should be more careful, knew that she should not engage in this when it would only ever cost her, she was not above claiming her victory, in this moment.

She could not remember the last time she had been granted one, and she would claim it with both hands, if she had to.

Knowing that, while Joffrey would no doubt storm off in a huff, angered but incapable of doing anything about it, Sansa would leave this audience chamber to find Margaery in the Maidenvault, would let Margaery fuck her, firm in the knowledge that Tywin Lannister was not allowing his grandson to do so.

And while a part of her felt guilty to even be thinking about Margaery in terms of a trophy to be won, to be fought over between her and Joffrey in a war Joffrey did not even know he was fighting, it was a very small part, in this moment.

Because Sansa had known Joffrey's cruelties long before she had ever laid eyes on Margaery, and now she had finally could do something about them, even if it was only a small thing, bourne of a lady's courtesies and wit, ever so important.

"Of course," Joffrey muttered, sounding petulant. "But you should teach your wife her place, all the same."

Tyrion nodded. "She will learn it," he agreed, and it sounded like more of a threat than a promise, though Sansa could not say whether the threat was for her, or Joffrey.

And then Tyrion was leading her from the room, arm wrapped in hers and eying her like he wasn't quite sure if he should reprimand her or congratulate her, and Sansa felt very much like a queen.

And she could not deny that she enjoyed the feeling very much, whatever it might eventually cost her.

Chapter Text

"My gods, Sansa, I heard what you said to Joffrey from half a dozen different courtiers," Margaery said, in lieu of a greeting, when Sansa answered her summons to share supper together, yanking her into the room and glancing about into the empty corridor behind Sansa nervously.

Sansa was still feeling rather heady from the memory herself, and she could not withhold a small grin at the reminder.

Margaery frowned at her, gripping Sansa by the elbows and looking very near to shaking her. "You came dangerously close to setting him off, I heard."

Sansa shrugged, rather more moved by the fact that Margaery was so clearly worried. "He couldn't do anything about it," she told Margaery. "And I..." she shivered. "I couldn't help myself."

Margaery looked at her for a long moment, and then smiled sadly. "Oh, Sansa," she murmured, pulling Sansa into a soft, delicate kiss, quite unlike anything they had done recently.

Sansa moaned into the touch, into the soft, warm, safe feeling of Margaery and wondered if she could avoid a lecture by seeing the other girl come undone before her.

With gentle fingers, she turned Margaery around when they had both pulled back, reached for the delicate white ties of the other girl's evening gown, a plain, golden and white gown that covered her far more fully than most of the gowns Margaery wore.

It made Sansa feel claustrophobic, just looking at it, and her fingers moved faster, ignoring the amused sounds coming from Margaery as Sansa's lips moved to her shoulders, gently sucking.

"You mustn't do it again," Margaery was saying, through the haze that Sansa felt. "Tywin Lannister may be able to stave Joffrey off for now, but there's no telling how long that will last."

Sansa hummed.

She didn't intend to do it again. While the feeling she'd gotten, mocking Joffrey like a small child, had been heady, she also knew how dangerous it had been. Knew that she had done nothing like this since she had been betrothed to Joffrey, and he'd been forced to keep her face pretty out of sheer necessity, as his future wife.

No, it was not something she would dare to do again, but she would not regret it, in this moment.

She bit down on Margaery's shoulder, and the other girl let out a cry that started its life as pained surprise and morphed slowly into something else as Sansa lapped at the firm, slowly beating veins of Margaery's neck with her tongue.

Gods, Sansa wanted to hear Margaery make that sound a dozen times over. She didn't think she would ever grow tired of it.

"Sansa," Margaery moaned, turning around to face her, gaze insistent.

Sansa sighed, nodded. "I won't," she promised, meeting Margaery's eyes, and, after a moment, Margaery nodded, bent forward and kissed her.

Kissing Margaery would never be a sensation that Sansa would tire of. Her thick, puffy lips, gentle as always when they maneuvered open Sansa's, her tongue as it licked the inner walls of Sansa's mouth and made her imagine Margaery licking the inner walls of another part of her, ever single time since the first, the feel of her pointy teeth as they dragged along Sansa's lower lip.

She wrapped her arms around Margaery's back, pulled the other girl closer and sank her claws into Margaery's warm, naked skin, clutching as if letting go might kill her.

For a moment, she thought of Dorne, and wondered if it might.

And then Margaery was dragging her backwards, onto the bed, with sure, quick steps, before they both collapses onto it, Margaery pawing at the rest of Sansa's clothes until they were nothing but a small, uncomfortable heap below her, and Sansa kept kissing her, kissing every part of her that she could reach.

She remembered her mother telling her once that one did not need passion in a marriage, after she had informed Catelyn rather primly that Theon had told her otherwise. Theon had gotten rather a sound tongue-lashing, for whatever it was he had said, which hadn't been for Sansa's young ears at the time, but it had been Sansa notice things, after that.

While she knew her mother and father loved each other, there wasn't passion in their marriage, not like what Theon had described to her, and not like how she felt for Margaery, just now.

She didn't think she could bear standing beside Tyrion as his passionless wife for the rest of her life, not after tasting this.

When Margaery released her and Sansa came up for air once more, she was panting, her face flushed, thighs soaked.

Gods, she wanted.

"It's strange though," Sansa said quietly, to distract herself from a want her septa had once warned could consume young girls to their detriment, and Margaery blinked languidly up at her.

"What is?"

"Lord Tywin. He seems...too invested in protecting me now, where he never cared before."

Margaery's expression softened. "Perhaps he has finally seen sense, though I hesitate to ascribe such a power to Joffrey, of all people."

Seen sense, because Joffrey had nearly raped her.

Sansa swallowed. "Lord Tywin said something strange to me, when Ser Jaime took me to his offices," she told Margaery. "Something I still don't understand. He all but implied that once there had been 'another woman of a noble house'," Sansa said quietly. "But I don't think Joffrey-"

Margaery shook her head. "He's only ever wanted you besides me, Sansa," she said softly. "There've been whores, but...he doesn't use them for that, anyway."

A haunted look entered her eyes, and Sansa wondered what he did use the whores for, decided she didn't want to know, if it caused Margaery to look like that.

Sansa nodded, for that was what she had thought. "Then what was he referring to-"

"I don't want to talk about Tywin Lannister," Margaery said petulantly, leaning up to lick a stripe down her cheek. "I'd much rather talk about you."

Sansa wondered if that was an avoidance, or if Margaery really didn't know and didn't care, but she allowed the distraction, allowed Margaery to reach out and pull Sansa down into her lap, allowed Margaery to manipulate her body until they were straddling one another, thighs pressing tight together.

Sansa swallowed hard, reached out to caress one of Margaery's breasts, rubbed her thumb over Margaery's nipple until it grew hard beneath her, bent down and pulled it into her mouth.

It was the first time she had done so, and it was a strange sensation, her tongue pressing against Margaery's nipple in much the same way a young child sucked at their mother, but then Margaery threw her head back and moaned, and Sansa thought the sensation worth it.

She lapped at Margaery's left nipple, then her right, enjoyed the sounds Margaery made underneath her, the squirming and the need in her eyes as she finally grabbed Sansa and pulled her into another kiss.

Chapter Text

"If anyone touches my lady, Ser Loras, I want them killed in the most painful way you can imagine," Joffrey told her brother, laying a hand on the man's arm.

Margaery watched as her brother went rather stiff, nodded. Wondered if Joffrey was truly such a fool as not to see the irony in such a statement. "I will not hesitate, Your Grace."

Joffrey smirked. "Good." He glanced between the two of them. "Good."

She wondered if he was thinking that perhaps Margaery and Loras were similar in their bloodlust. Margaery glanced at her brother's stony expression. Perhaps they were.

Margaery smiled. "I'm sure I shall be quite safe, my love. These are...deeply religious people."

She knew that Lord Tywin had forbidden Joffrey from leaving the Keep, while she was free to roam the city to her heart's content, and that this restriction annoyed him, even as she knew he would likely not have gone with her, even if he could.

For all Joffrey's boasting, he was hardly more than a coward when things came down to it, as he had proved with Lord Tywin.

Margaery only needed to pretend Lord Tywin had not drawn blood when he proved Joffrey's cowardice, only needed to pretend she was not scenting it even now.

But she had made this promise to see to this strange religious fanatic some time ago, and apparently, all of the arrangements for a meeting had finally been finished; she wondered what had taken so long, especially when they were supposedly taking this Sparrow by surprise, with her arrival.

And she had brought along her purse, as well as instruct her ladies to bring theirs', for charity to the smallkfolk they would no doubt come across, though she wished that Sansa could have been among them. She knew Lord Tywin would have forbidden that before she'd even asked, however.

As much as he did not want sympathy getting to the girl at the idea of the King raping her, he also didn't want the smallfolk remembering the Northern girl whom Joffrey had thrust aside.

Margaery sighed, turning to Elinor who stood beside her, then to Megga and Alla.

"Ready?" she asked them, and they nodded, though she noticed that Megga looked a bit nervous.

Margaery abruptly remembered the day they had set out from Highgarden together, a group of gaggling girls escorting Margaery to the war camps after her hasty but beautiful marriage ceremony with the handsome Renly Baratheon.

There had been no time for a bedding ceremony, Renly had claimed, and Margaery hadn't much minded even when Alla caught Loras sneaking into Renly's chambers on the very same night. They had giggled about it for hours, these girls, until Margaery's mother had found them, in the early hours of the morning, and sent them away with a tongue-lashing that was hardly up to Olenna Tyrell's standards, and which had hardly had the same affect.

Her ladies seemed so much older now, for all that most of them were still very much children. The days of giggling and running through Highgarden to sneak a glance at Margaery's husband and Margaery's brother before the septas caught them were long behind them.

Margaery had explained to them that this was something the Crown was worried about, that they were likely in no danger but did not need to come if they were afraid.

Her cousins had not liked to hear that, as she had suspected, and were all of course here with her. Her ladies were good, like that.

They walked out surrounded by Ser Loras and Ser Boros and half a dozen green cloaks, and Margaery did her best to smile and wave at everyone she came across, as she always did, as she had done when the Tyrells had paraded through the city after the victory of Blackwater.

And as the smallfolk screamed out her name, called out to "Good Queen Margaery," she almost forgot that there was a king at all, who had given her this position and who, with his madness, could take it away again at a moment's notice.

They loved her.

"Alla," Margaery called, reaching out and taking her lady's hand, "Go and pass out some coin, over there."

Alla did not need to be told twice, pulling out her silken purse and gliding past the Tyrell guards, smiling brightly at the people before her as they clamored for her coin, pressing a single golden piece into each waiting hand and murmuring of Queen Margaery's sympathies.

Beside Margaery, Elinor moved forward to do the same, Ser Alyn materializing so suddenly at her arm that Margaery had to hide a smile behind her next wave to the smallfolk.

"Thank you, thank you!"

The steps of the Red Keep disappeared swiftly as they moved through the crowd, through the wealthier streets of King's Landing that visiting nobles saw and further, to where the cobblestones became more uneven and the people's faces more drawn, further still to that fetid place known as Flea Bottom.

Margaery had been here before, of course. Had come here often since arriving in King's Landing, for she had taken on a patronage of the first orphanage she had come here to, so long ago when Joffrey had seemed so surprised by her interest in charitable works.

Margaery knew that Sansa had never shared that interest as she had, did not see the true purpose in it, and also that the Lannisters would never allow the other girl to go to Flea Bottom again, but Margaery wished she could have brought her here.

Today, she passed that orphanage, the street cluttered with smallfolk come out to see their young queen as she walked passed, reminding herself to ask after the orphanage as soon as she had returned to the Keep.

Well, perhaps not as soon as.

But the smallfolk knew where she was going as well as Margaery, for this meeting had been one the Lannisters had carefully arranged, wanting to ensure it was on a cooler day to keep the streets from roiling in chaos, and on a day of rest, where the sparrows would no doubt be helping the poor.

Margaery wondered what it was about charity that so frightened the Lannisters, frightened the Faith.

She had almost given up on the prospect of being sent out to speak with these Sparrows, as it had been so long ago and she'd admittedly been...distracted, with other things.

And then the High Septon had blustered into the throne room yesterday, ripping at his ceremonial robes in his rage, claiming that the very pillar of the Faith was being desecrated by the crown's inaction against these "terror-inducing practitioners of sedition," even if he could no more describe why than Joffrey could give him an answer for this without looking to Lord Tywin.

Joffrey did always hate to be accused of things, Margaery had noticed, and so Margaery had been sent out on her mission of mercy, her guard duty doubled to account for the High Septon's words.

"My lady," Alla was suddenly at Margaery's side once more. Margaery glanced at the other girl; saw her discreet nod toward the small knob of people blocking their way along this particular road.

It did not look necessarily violent, this group, but Margaery noticed her guards standing on edge, all the same.

"The Sparrows?" she asked Alla, and the other girl nodded, lips tightening. Her walking alongside the crowd had helped in that regard, after all.

"Yes, my lady," she murmured, and Margaery nodded.

"Right." She gestured to Ser Boros. "Take us through the crowd, please," she told him, and, after giving her a narrow look, Ser Boros turned to do just that.

It did not take long to move through this growing crowd, for most of the bulk of it appeared to be people sitting down, clutching at bowls full of soup or injured body parts that it made Margaery wince to see, out in the cold light of day.

And, in the middle of this strange group, stood a few young men with those strange insignias carved into their foreheads, circled protectively around an old man who knelt before a young boy, holding a bowl out to him.

Margaery's brow furrowed, for these were no doubt the Sparrows she had been warned of, but they hardly looked threatening to her, for all of the High Septon's blustering.

"Thank you for the soup," the boy now holding the bowl whispered, and the old man kneeling before him touched him on the head, as if bestowing a blessing.

Margaery waited until he stood to achy feet and moved away before approaching the blind young boy, smiling at him before realizing that her smile was rather pointless.

His too white, sightless eyes stared up at her as she knelt where the old man had just a moment ago stood, his young protectors and himself gone on.

"Excuse me," she said to the blind boy, ignoring Megga's gasps of dismay at the fact that Margaery had gone and ruined another gown, "I understand that this is the domain of the Sparrows. I wonder if you could tell me where I might find the High Sparrow?"

The little boy blinked at her, gaze unnerving for all that it wasn't there, before he took a sip of his soup and pointed after the old man who had just been attending him.

Margaery frowned. "Thank you," she murmured, and then accepted Megga's hand to pull her to her feet, following after this strange old man with renewed curiosity.

And she did not have to go far to find him, for he had stopped by the side of an old crone sitting in the middle of the square not several paces away.

"Your Grace," the old man said, staring at her in surprise when he noticed her, his young guards doing the noticing first, but he motioned to his guard of young men as if telling them to stand down, and that was Margaery's first warning, she supposed.

That they would attack a queen or not do so on the say-so of this odd old man.

Margaery smiled sweetly. "The young man back there," she nodded to the blind boy still slurping his soup behind them, "Said that I might find the High Sparrow back here. Would you mind telling me where he is?"

The old man chuckled. "High Sparrow. Sounds a bit ridiculous, doesn't it? Like Lord Duckling, or King Turtle." He shrugged. "So it's meant to. We're often stuck with the names our enemies give us."

Margaery's face blanched. "My apologies, I did not realize that the name was not of your own choosing."

He waved a hand. "It is no matter. The notion that we are all equal in the eyes of the Seven doesn't sit well with some so they belittle me."

A woman stepped forward, pressing a cloth into the Sparrow's hands. "Seven blessings to you," she whispered gratefully, and he sent her a smile.

"Seven blessings to you, my dear." He smiled up at Margaery as the woman walked away. "It's only a name, and quite an easy burden to bear. Far easier than hers."

Margaery swallowed. "The poor and downtrodden are never far from my heart," she told him quietly. "If there is anything you need, I am sure that the Crown can help you to provide it."

The High Sparrow blinked at her, and Margaery found her eyes traveling to his feet. "Perhaps, some shoes."

He smiled thinly. "I gave them away to someone who needed them more. We all do that. It stops us from forgetting who we really are."

Margaery raised a brow, fishing, for she realized that he had as yet told her nothing. "Is that why you came to King's Landing? To remind everyone?"

He chuckled. "Everyone? I have a hard time reminding myself." Margaery laughed lightly at those words, and he seemed encouraged to continue. "Well, I tell them no one's special. They think I'm special for telling them so. Perhaps they're right."

She smiled. "I would very much like to believe that, as the gods intended. Did they send you here to tell all of King's Landing that?"

He smiled. "I did not come here to tempt you from your sacred duties as Queen, Your Grace. I'd assumed you'd only come here to arrest me. Is that not the case? I understand that the High Septon finds me...seditious." He chuckled, on that last word, and Margaery almost chuckled with him, before she remembered herself.

She swallowed. "It was a rather horrid thing for the Court to hear of, I'm afraid, that someone has been inciting questions in the town, doing charity. The High Septon all but convinced them that you are a traitor, plotting to bring down the realm and drag the people from the Faith of the Seven. But I look around and see only a kind man doing charitable works. You can imagine my confusion."

He snorted. "Hypocrisy is a boil. Lancing a boil is never pleasant, and I have found those members of the Faith who reside in the Sept of Baelor to be the highest of hypocrites. But I assure you, I seek only to help those in need, like I once was."

Margaery hummed in response. She was not fooled by his fool old man's perception; this could man spar words with her grandmother, she was sure.

"The High Septon came to speak with my husband today. He wanted the King to execute you for, as he said it, leading the people astray. Joffrey laughed and sent him back to his Sept, for we heard no real charge against you save that you have managed to pacify the smallfolk."

The High Sparrow squinted at her. "I wouldn't presume to know your thoughts on the matter."

Margaery blinked, wondered when had been the last time a man had asked her that. "My thoughts on the matter align with your own. The High Septon's behavior is...corrosive, as is his attitude to the gods. Having a man like that residing in the Sept eats away at our Faith from the inside." She shook her head. "And is it not the Mother who asks us to give to those in need?"

"And yet, in the Sept he remains," the High Sparrow said quietly.

Margaery lifted her eyes to meet his, frowned to show her own displeasure. "The King was not convinced to call for your head because he was annoyed that the High Septon wasted his time, but I am afraid he will take little more interest in the matter, when so many important matters dealing with the safety of the kingdom must be addressed. And though you are not alone in your dislike of our High Septon's ways, he has done no wrong which can truly condemn him."

Joffrey had been annoyed, she knew. Annoyed because, even if he had wanted to, there would have been nothing Joffrey would have been able to do about these Sparrows. Tywin, on the other hand, did not seem to care one way or another, save that Margaery had the feeling he would gladly send in the gold cloaks to slaughter all of these sparrows, if he thought them a true threat, and not merely a threat to a wheedling, power-hungry old man.

Margaery would spare these sparrows from that, if she could, for all that she did not understand this old man's game.

He gave her a long, knowing look. "The Faith and the Crown are the two pillars that hold up this world. If one collapses, so does the other. We must do everything necessary to protect one another, Your Grace. The High Septon's corruption must be dealt with."

Margaery smiled, pretended that his referring to himself as the Faith itself did not give her chills, as well as his call for "dealing with" the High Septon.

"I could not agree more, but I fear that there is very little I can do, beyond providing any clothing and food that these people might need from the Keep," she said, gesturing to the people sitting around them. "I may be a queen, but you are right when you say that none of us is any more special than the other."

The High Sparrow smiled. "That is most gracious, Your Grace. It is always good to see that not all of those for whom the gods have smiled so brightly truly believe themselves above the rest of us."

Margaery raised a brow, but never got the chance to respond.

Never got a chance to respond, because the blind boy who not moments ago had smiled at her voice leapt through the gathering crowd suddenly, pushing past her guards, who let him go for all that he was still of a tender age and blind, and threw himself at her.

Margaery gasped, had no moment's warning before she found herself on her back on the cobblestones, wincing at the sensation of her bones grinding against them, of her head smacking against stone and mud, as the little boy's hands found her throat and squeezed with a strength that she would not have thought him capable of.

The world blurred around the edges, black spots peppering at her vision, and Margaery gasped for air that wouldn't come as a thumb jerked into the front of her throat and made her gag.

The sensation of choking did not last long; for all that it brought tears to her throat and made her ears ring.

"Your Grace!" she heard Alla cry, and then Alla was at her side, pulling Margaery against her. Margaery could taste the salt from Alla's frightened tears.

She pulled away, gave Alla and her other ladies and the people watching - so many people - a weak smile.

"I am well," she whispered, glancing down at the attacker that Loras had pinned to the cobblestones on his back, Loras' hand holding his head down as the boy thrashed and panted beneath him.

"Loras!" she cried, but her brother did not seem to hear her, did not seem to care if he had, as he gave the boy a hard shake that set his bones rattling until the boy cried out in pain, reached up to cover his head.

"Loras, stop. He's just a boy."

Loras glanced up at her, expression hard in a way Margaery had never seen it. In a way that frightened her. His knife grip on the boy did not loosen.

Beneath him, the boy had stopped making noise, merely breathed wheezily through his nose.

"He tried to kill you," he told her, and Margaery glanced around, saw the darkening eyes of the smallfolk, the Tyrell guards closing in a semi circle around them.

"He did not truly hurt me." She paused, glanced at the High Sparrow, and continued, "Thanks be to the Seven."

The High Sparrow's eyes were wide, and he glanced between Margaery and the young man currently under Loras' knife point with an almost helpless look.

The boy looked hardly older than Megga, face smeared with dirt, eyes wide as he panted and struggled under Loras' blade, but his glare was all for Margaery.

"Why did he attack me?" Margaery gasped out, as the sparrow writhed and twisted in Loras' grip, for all that her brother did not sacrifice him an inch, knife coming out of his belt to press into the groove of the man's chest.

The boy glared at her again, fire in his eyes, and then spat a glob of spit and blood in her direction, sneering.

Margaery leapt back to avoid it landing on her dress, squeezed Alla's hand when the other girl cried out.

"Ah, you must forgive him, Your Grace, Ser Loras," the High Sparrow said, stepping forward in that moment, hands folded neatly in front of him as he watched Loras' knife tremble where it lay against the sparrow's throat.

Margaery was quite certain she must do nothing of the sort.

"His father was killed in the Battle of Blackwater. He has prayed to the gods since to remove the burden of grief he feels before it consumes him. But we all struggle. The Mother must give him her mercy, that his grief can be put to a use for the Seven."

Pretty words, Margaery thought idly, but they would not appease her brother, who had no love of men who dared lay a hand on his sister and less love for the Seven who declared that the way he felt for Renly was wrong.

"We did not orchestrate that battle," Loras hissed at the writhing man, knife digging deeply enough to draw blood, and Margaery tried not to wince and suspected she failed. "Had we not been there, you might have died alongside your father."

The would-be assassin twisted in his arms, swore at him most foully, but his eyes, cold and angry, did not leave Margaery, and she shivered at the look he was giving her, all too familiar to her eyes.

Felt a phantom spurt of blood dripping down between her thighs, and she clasped her hands together before anyone saw them shaking.

"Wise words, Ser Loras," the High Sparrow agreed. "So you can see that this boy is merely confused."

Loras grunted, and Margaery saw the darkness return to his eyes, the darkness that had been there for too long, now.

"He attacked his queen," Loras said lowly. "The Father would not forgive him for that, would he, priest?"

The High Sparrow sighed. "I am not a priest, Ser Loras, but I urge you to consider-"

Margaery did not hear the rest of what he said, saw only the smallfolk gathered around them, inching closer with the tension filling the air, saw Loras' fellow Kingsguard, their hands on the pommels of their swords.

"Loras," she murmured, in as diplomatic a voice as she might manage without her brother thinking she was patronizing him.

Her brother glanced up at her, met her eyes, and then his pretty eyes roved down to her neck, and Margaery closed hers.

He was looking at the mark Sansa had given Margaery just that morning, the one burning into her throat that looked like it might have been done with something more than the gentle touch of a lover's mouth, and she knew he was remembering the days when Joffrey had paraded her before his people, wounded by the flat of his sword.

The knife plunged into the assassin’s chest, pushing through skin and bone like butter, and the boy managed only a gurgling scream before Loras pushed it further and Margaery watched the pointy end emerge from behind the blind boy's back, shivered at the sight of him, shaking out his last in Loras' arms.

Margaery glanced away at the last moment, as the boy's gurgled breaths slowed, grimacing.

And then Loras dropped her attacker to the ground, the knife sliding out as quickly as it had gone in, watched dispassionately as the sparrow convulsed on the cobblestones, blood dripping out of the corner of his mouth.

Loras wiped his blade on his Kingsguard cloak, and tucked it back into its sheath, reached out his gloved hand for Margaery's a moment later.

Margaery stepped forward nimbly, took it, conscious of the eyes of everyone around them watching her movements.

She had been the charitable queen whom everyone loved a moment before. Now, they feared her as they feared Cersei, knew that she valued their lives below her own.

Margaery swallowed, saw several of the smallfolk's expressions, anger and fear and injustice radiating across their faces, smelled the blood of the man who attacked her, and knew that if she did not act precipitously, there would be more where it came from.

Her Kingsguard were close enough that if a fight broke out, a riot like what had happened to Joffrey and Cersei in Flea Bottom, she could be reasonably sure of their protection in a return journey to the Keep, but, while the smallfolk were not allowed to carry weapons, she doubted that would stop them.

One of their own, a grieving boy, had just been killed, after all.

She looked at them, and saw the smiling faces from moments ago, when Margaery had passed out the coin from her purse and been the "good queen."

She saw their salivating faces, their angry eyes, and swallowed hard, squeezed the crook of his elbow. He glanced down at her, stormy eyes meeting her fearful ones for a moment, before he dipped his head.

"I think perhaps we ought to return to the Keep," Margaery told the High Sparrow, turning to him with an apologetic smile. "We have only caused further discord here and pain where I meant to cause help to those so desperately in need of it, and I apologize for it. As recompense, I will ensure that the Crown sends your people bread and meats."

The High Sparrow blinked at her, raised a hand as if to quell the rising tempers of their observers. "Your Kingsguard was correct, in his need to protect you," he told her, eyes gentle, too kind to be trusted. "We must understand - you are the Queen, and his duty to you was admirable."

Margaery swallowed, dipped into a shallow curtsey as her white fingers dug into Loras' arm so sharply she thought she saw him wince.

Perhaps she had been wrong, to wonder why the Lannisters feared charity so.

It only worked for the purpose it was put to, after all, if one controlled where it was coming from, and Margaery had lost this crowd so easily to an old man without shoes who had promised soup.

Chapter Text

Joffrey was incensed with the knowledge that some child had attempted to kill his lady, had thrown a fit of particularly great proportions before Lord Tywin had asked the King to spend some time with him behind the closed doors of the King's chambers.

Margaery had not five minutes later appeared outside of Sansa's door, apparently cognizant that Tyrion had gone off to deal with Prince Oberyn Martell on some matter or another, and Shae, as she seemed to be doing quite often these days, was nowhere to be found, and having gotten rid of a self-reproaching Ser Loras in the mean time.

The door slid shut behind her, and Sansa did not waste another moment, reaching out and pulling Margaery into her arms.

"Oh gods, Margaery, I was so worried when I heard what happened," Sansa said, kissing up and down her neck, and Margaery chuckled lowly.

"I'm fine, Sansa," she murmured, not that she didn't appreciate the treatment.

Sansa pouted beautifully. "They said Ser Loras...killed a man trying to attack you."

Margaery shrugged, tried to sound flippant and not think of the child's gurgling breaths when Loras had plunged his knife through the boy's chest. "I wasn't in any real danger then, was I?"

Sansa swatted at her arm. "You could have been killed," she whispered, and watched as Margaery's throat spasmed in a way that looked almost nervous.

"I wasn't," she said, and it sounded like a promise. And Sansa could contain herself no longer.

She moved forward, pressed her lips to Margaery's in a kiss that was softer than any it seemed they had shared in some time, and then she reached out, pulling on Margaery's shoulders, guiding her toward the bed.

Sansa turned, slipped down onto the bed beside Margaery, kissed her again as she reached up to slip Margaery's sleeve down her arm.

Margaery pulled away for a moment, letting out an exaggerated sigh as she divested herself of the top half of her gown, pushing it down around her waist and letting her pert nipples touch the air.

Sansa sucked in a breath at the sight of them, unsure if she would ever get used to seeing how beautiful Margaery was without her clothes. She glanced up, kissed Margaery again as she reached out to rub a nipple between thumb and forefinger.

Margaery gasped into Sansa's mouth at the sensation, and then her own hands were roving down Sansa's form, clutching her through the thin pink, threadbare gown Sansa wore.

Sansa for a moment felt self-conscious, at the knowledge that Margaery was touching such an old, ugly gown, that Sansa had nothing better to offer her because the Lannisters cared so little about what she wore.

She hugged herself, but then Margaery was batting her hands away, reaching for the ties of Sansa's gown and working at them with a methodical slowness that had Sansa squirming with need.

"Margaery-"

And then Margaery's lips were sucking gently on one of Sansa's breasts, that sensation that sent sparks all of the way down Sansa's spine and into her groin, made her claw at the bed sheets with need, and then at Margaery when that brought her no satisfaction.

She pushed Margaery gently back onto the bed, watched the other girl fall into the bed sheets for a moment, the sheets rippling around her like water, and then followed, her fingers tracing down Margaery's stomach, beneath her gown to brush at her milky thighs, then lower.

Margaery jolted suddenly, met her eyes and whispered, "Sansa..."

Sansa lifted her head, nervous now with the sudden desire pumping through her, as her legs grew wet. "I don't know..."

Margaery smiled, though for a moment she looked as nervous as Sansa. "Fingers," she gasped out, pulling the rest of her gown up until it pooled around her waist. "That's easier, first."

Sansa nodded, knelt down between Margaery's open legs as she reached out with almost trembling right hand to tangle in the delicate bush at the apex of Margaery's thighs, glanced up at her again.

Margaery grinned, leaned up to kiss Sansa on the lips, the movement hurried, demanding.

Sansa almost forgot what she had resolved to do with the feel of those plush lips against her own, was reminded for a moment of the first time she had kissed Margaery, in Joffrey's chambers-

Sansa's fingers rubbed against Margaery's womanhood, and they both gasped at the sensation, before Margaery was kissing her again, their teeth clacking together painfully before Margaery's tongue breached inside of Sansa's mouth.

Sansa's fingers pushed in slightly, and she winced involuntarily at the sensation, attempted to pull back from Margaery, but the other girl merely pushed forward harder, one hand reaching out to claw at Sansa's shoulder, to pull her closer.

When Sansa's index finger breached Margaery's cunny, pushing deeply enough into that tightness that she felt slightly nervous, worried that she would hurt the other girl somehow, it was the strangest sensation she had ever felt, and not necessarily a good one, at first.

For a moment, she thought she might have hurt Margaery, thought the almost grainy feel of Margaery's pubic hair against her palm too rough, thought her finger in Margaery's body too slimy.

And then Margaery gasped and bucked up into Sansa's finger, pushing it deeper, and Sansa forgot her reservations as she watched Margaery's face twist in pleasure, watched Margaery's body spasm beneath her touch, watched Margaery moan her name.

"Sansa..." she whispered, and then she was moving, kissing Sansa again, kissing her with the hard passion Sansa had grown used to from the other girl without quite knowing when this had happened. “Yes. Sansa."

Margaery pushed herself up into Sansa's hand again, and Sansa's fingers tangled further in the other girl's hair for a moment before she glanced down between them, watched Margaery's quivering thighs push against Sansa's wrist, gently placed another finger inside of Margaery.

Margaery let out a shout, her wet heat tightening suddenly around Sansa's two fingers, and Sansa froze, glanced down at the other girl nervously, for the shout had not sounded all pleasure to her ears.

"Are you all right?" Sansa gasped out. "Do...do you want me to stop?"

Margaery let out a growl of frustration, reached out and hooked her arm around Sansa's neck, pulling her close until they were almost nose to nose, and Sansa's fingers, a third accompanying them now, slipped further inside of her.

"You had better not stop," Margaery snapped out, looking startled despite herself at the order, and Sansa blinked, before chuckling.

"Then I won't," she whispered, and pushed a fourth finger in, watched Margaery's face twist before she let out another panting gasp and breathed in hard through her nose.

"Gods, Sansa..." She threw her head back, pulling away from Sansa's kiss, and Sansa stared at her for a long moment, stared at the free expression on her face, free for perhaps the first time that Sansa had ever seen it, and vowed to memorize that look.

Margaery, her head thrown back, eyes closed and lips only slighted parted; cheeks flushed as, beneath where Sansa sat on top of her, Margaery's legs trembled.

Sansa hadn't really understood how Margaery could get so much enjoyment from what she had done to Sansa earlier, giving rather than taking, as Sansa had been, but she thought she did now, even from the scant amount she had done yet.

To feel Margaery's wet heat against her fingers, to hear Margaery's gasps and know that she had drawn them-

And though she could by no means know if her own unpracticed hand was enough to bring Margaery the sort of enjoyment that she'd had just moments before, she thought that by the loud pants Margaery was now eliciting, it might have done enough.

"Am I doing this right?" Sansa asked quietly, and Margaery leapt up from the bed, captured the words with a kiss.

"Gods, Sansa, stop talking," she whispered, and then her tongue was inside of Sansa, working at the same slow, steady rhythm Sansa's fingers were working inside of her, and Sansa forgot to breathe until the other girl pulled back.

When Margaery came into Sansa's hand, when her body jerked just before the sensation of thick, warm liquid spurted out onto Sansa's fingers, Sansa heard the small cry the other girl made, a cry of ecstasy that was also pain, and it sounded beautiful.

Sansa stared down at the fluids on her fingers, had the errant thought that she would like to know what Margaery tasted like in the same way Margaery knew what she tasted like, and lifted her fingers to her mouth, sucked on them idly.

It wasn't so amazing as she had expected it to be, from how Margaery had reacted to first tasting Sansa, but it was all the better, she supposed for being another part of Margaery that Sansa could consume.

She lifted her face as a bit of Margaery's essence dribbled down her chin, to find the other girl's already lustful eyes watching her.

"That was..." Margaery whispered at the end of this, planting heavily, her pretty cheeks flushed as she looked up at Sansa, reached up to brush the hair from Sansa's eyes.

Sansa nodded, breathless. "My gods," she whispered. "I..."

She didn't get the chance to finish, for in the next moment Margaery tossed Sansa onto her back, ripped at Sansa's gown where it still clung to her legs-

"My lady?" Lady Alla's voice called, from outside the room. "Lord Mace is looking for you."

Margaery let out another groan of frustration as Sansa's hips bucked up in dismay at the news, before Sansa's chuckle startled her.

"You'd better go," she murmured, and Margaery blinked down at her, looking adorably bemused.

"Sansa-"

"I'll be fine," Sansa promised her, and somehow knew it would be true, even if she could not say why. "I'll leave just after you do."

Margaery hesitated, and then nodded. "Just a moment, Alla!" she called out, and then hurriedly reached down to arrange her clothing in some semblance of modesty.

Sansa snorted again, reached out and placed a hand over Margaery's.

"Meet in my chambers, later?" she asked, hated that her voice sounded almost pleading. "Lord Tyrion is hardly there, these days." She didn't bother to ask why, when she did see him in the dark of night.

Margaery bent down and kissed Sansa on the nose, rolled off the bed and slipped into the shoes sitting on the floor in front of it.

Chapter Text

"What's this, then?" Margaery asked with a bemused smile.

Alla smiled widely at her. "We thought that, since you've become Queen and all, we've not all had some time together in a while, and we thought the perfect way to rectify that would be a picnic."

She beamed at the end of this speech, and Margaery could not stop herself from smiling back as she was pushed into her seat at the table by her ladies, all surrounding her in a gaggle, having sprung upon her the moment she had left her lord father's company. She could use some time with her ladies, not needing to think, after such a conversation.

"That sounds wonderful," she agreed, for she had not done something like this in some time, it felt like, and her ladies looked terribly triumphant, at that knowledge.

Margaery sat, allowed the other girls to pour her tea and place heaps of cakes and fruits onto the plate before her with a small smile.

Beside her, Elinor looked almost contrite, and Margaery had the sudden thought that this had no doubt been her idea, to get Margaery away from Joffrey, for a time.

If only she knew that Joffrey was as harmless to her as a kitten, in his current state, but Margaery could appreciate the effort all the same.

“And have you another suitor this week, Megga?” Margaery asked the other girl, with a small grin.

It was quite the joke amongst the girls that, ever since they had first arrived in King’s Landing after the Battle of Blackwater was over, Megga had been approached by a suitor every week, much to the girl’s amusement, for she had not been so wildly popular in Highgarden.

Megga snorted. “Some Bulwer, I think," she said, casting an amused glance in Alysanne's direction.

Alysanne blushed, stuffed another pie into her mouth to keep from answering, and the girls descended into giggles.

Margaery's eyes flicked between them all, rather amused. She'd missed this, she realized. Missed these girls, since marrying Joffrey and finding her time swept up in matters of state and in...

"Alysanne," she said suddenly, eyes narrowing on the young girl, "I promised Lady Sansa that I would join her for tea when you lot ambushed me. I don't suppose you could go and find her?"

Alysanne brightened at the prospect of doing some service for her lady, jumped to her feet and promised to do as she was bid, her stalwart knight following without a moment's hesitation and with merely a nod to his queen.

Margaery smiled behind her hand as she watched them go.

That girl inspired adoration wherever she went, even if she did not seem to and likely never would realize it. She would make a fine lady of

Alysanne was the only one of them an heiress of her own right, but too young for suitors, much to Margaery's relief. The same age as young Prince Tommen.

Of course, Alla was only slightly older.

"So," Margaery said, turning back to the other girls, "What is this I hear of a Bulwer suit, Megga?"

Megga snorted, but it was Janna who spoke before she could, revealing the story as if she might burst if she could not tell it. Margaery rather suspected that might be the case.

Janna leaned forward, lowering her voice as she did so. "Alysanne's sweet young brother proposed a suit to 'Sweet Lady Megga' just this fortnight," she said, and Margaery snorted.

"But he's only a child," she murmured, glancing at Megga in amusement, only to find that Megga did not appear as amused as she had been expecting.

"He's a year older than he was when we last saw him," she said, almost defensively, before covering her face with her tea cup as the other girls laughed.

"If you are so bored of your suitors, Megga, by all means, send them my way," Merry teased her, and the girls laughed again.

Megga threw a piece of pie at her, and soon the girls had collapsed into giggles once more, and Margaery stared at the lot of them and wondered how she had managed to grow so old so quickly.

She could remember a time when all of this would not have seemed so foreign to her. When she would have sat with these girls and enjoyed it as she always had, her grandmother looking disapprovingly on.

Margaery was saved from having to contemplate the matter further when she glanced up to the sight of a bemused Sansa, dragged along by Alysanne as Sansa's maid walked calmly behind them, looking amused at the spectacle they made as they raced through the gardens.

"Lady Sansa!" Merry called out, delightedly upon spotting where Margaery's attention had gone. "We were just talking about you." She grinned. "I don't suppose you'd care to know what?"

Sansa went rather pale, her eyes flicking to Margaery, who sighed inwardly before putting a hand on Merry's.

"Well, don't worry the girl Merry," she chided, and Merry lowered her eyes, pretended to be properly chastened.

"Oh, it's nothing to worry about," Merry said, turning to Sansa once more as she and her maid came closer to the table. "Just a bit of fun. Did you know, soon enough you won't be the only married woman amongst us ladies. Megga's going to be wed soon enough."

Sansa blinked, as if she did not quite understand what such a topic had to do with her, before turning a shy smile to Lady Megga. "Congratulations, my lady. Do I know the suitor?"

Alla was the first to snort, where she stood pouring herself more summer wine, an amount which Margaery was quite sure her mother would have had something to say about, had she been here, giving the game away.

Sansa stared in confusion as the girls burst into laughter once again.

But once Merry let Sansa in on the joke, she didn't seem quite as amused as the other girls, only smiled slightly before her eyes flicked to Margaery's, met and held them for a breathless moment.

"Do take a seat, Sansa," Lady Megga told her suddenly, reaching across Alysanne as the girl sat for another piece of lemon cakes, and thrusting them in the direction of the empty seat now awaiting Sansa.

Margaery watched as Sansa stepped nimbly forward, wondered why she had thought this a good idea, for, as important as Margaery realized it was for Sansa to make friends here, the girl looked terribly uncomfortable in a way that made Margaery want to chase all of the other girls away, until it was only the two of them once more.

"There is something you ought to know," Lady Alla whispered quietly to her, and Margaery's gaze flicked to the other girl even as she kept her smile and pretended to enjoy the feeling of Alla's fingers as they suddenly reached out and began playing with her hair.

"About Sansa Stark's lady's maid."

Margaery blinked at her, attention caught even as Sansa and Lady Shae took their seats at the table.

Alla smiled thinly, bent down so that she was whispering directly into Margaery's ear. "I saw her sneaking out of Lord Tywin's chambers just this morning."

Margaery stiffened, eyes going to Shae despite herself. Shae glanced up, meeting her eyes, glancing between her and Lady Alla before turning back to Sansa, pushing in the girl's chair for her.

"Lady Sansa and I were together last night," she murmured through clenched teeth to Lady Alla. "Oughtn't she to have been with Lord Tyrion, as we have heard about their...relationship?"

It had caught Margaery's attention, that the maid seemed in no mind to betray what she had clearly put together of Sansa and Margaery's relationship. She could not allow a Lannister maid to endanger them without further information, after all.

And while she had suspected as much just from seeing the dwarf and the maid interact in public, Margaery found that the evidence of their feelings for each other was...strangely sweet.

Alla sank into the chair beside her, reached for the tea cup there with dainty pink fingers. "One would think," she whispered back, and Margaery bit back a sigh.

"Lady Sansa," she smiled widely at Sansa, getting to her feet and moving to greet the other girl. "So good of you to join us." She turned to Sansa's lady's maid. "Lady Shae."

Lady Shae's eyes narrowed at her, as if she were somehow aware of what Lady Alla had just said, but then she smiled tightly, and stood behind Sansa as the other girl sat.

Margaery watched her go, and wondered what the...lady friend of the hated son of Tywin Lannister had to do in his offices.

Chapter Text

"Gods, Sansa," Margaery murmured, grinding her hips down onto Sansa's gently. "Seven, I..."

Her face contorted, and the grip Margaery held around Sansa's wrists, splayed out to her sides and held down on the bed, tightened almost to the point of pain.

Sansa closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation far more than she felt she should have, twisted her arms up into Margaery's grip just so that she could enjoy the grinding the sensation of her bones.

Margaery, atop her once more when Sansa opened her eyes, didn't appear to notice, lost in her own pleasure at the moment, and Sansa released a silent breath she hadn't realized she was holding, closing her eyes, basking in the feel of the other woman against her.

They'd been at it for some time now, so long now that Sansa was rather surprised no one had come looking for them, wondered how Margaery had orchestrated that.

"Sansa, I want to..." and then Margaery was moving, lowering her body down onto the bed so that she was straddling Sansa's thighs, her mouth going to the thin shock of red hair covering Sansa's womanhood, and she glanced up between hooded lashes, glancing at Sansa for permission Sansa was rather annoyed she was wasting the time to ask for.

Margaery snorted at the expression on Sansa's face, lowered her mouth and, instead of kissing as she had always started out with before, immediately sucking at Sansa's folds with an almost feverish intensity.

Sansa gasped, throwing her head back into the blankets, closing her eyes again, no longer realizing the way that Margaery's hands held down her wrists, lost.

They were in Winterfell. Margaery was holding her down against the large bed of the master bedchamber, Margaery holding her down, both of them tangled in furs where they lay, the bite of Margaery's hands on her wrists echoing the biting cold outside of their chambers.

Outside, Sansa could hear the twisting winds of winter, the beginnings of a storm which she had always found annoying when she had lived there, wishing for the warmth of a South she had never seen and thus could not appreciate as she ought to have done.

When they were done here, and they would not be done for hours, because there was no one to hide from, no one to tell them when they ought to stop, they would go down to the dining rooms and eat salted stew and bread, the cool beer Robb and Theon had always favored, things that were considered paltry and plain, here. And lemon cakes for dessert, shipped in from the South in this fantasy, for such things as relations between the kingdoms little mattered here, just as the thought of how little likely it was that Margaery would like the coldness of the North didn't matter, either.

In a little while, no doubt they would be called down to eat, would ignore the warning, and the food would grow as cold as the weather outside. Yet it was something Sansa couldn't bring herself to regret, as she lay under Margaery and let the other girl have her wicked way with Margaery, as she pushed her hands further inside of Sansa, made Sansa feel so good.

And Sansa suddenly wanted nothing more than for this fantasy to be true, wanted nothing more than to find herself tangled up in Margaery in her homeland, far from King's Landing and the horrid people there.

Wanted nothing more than to be laying beneath Margaery in the safety of her home, after having done so for years, together in a way that could not be pulled apart by kings or soldiers or anyone.

Where they could indulge in every fantasy she'd yet thought of, in the deep recesses of her mind, but had yet to put a voice to.

"Please, mistress..." Sansa whispered, and Margaery's forehead abruptly banged into Sansa's chin, the two girls pulling apart with an oof of pain.

They stared at each for a long moment, before Sansa flushed crimson and looked away first, and then flopped down onto the bed with an embarrassed cry.

Margaery stared after her, eyes terribly wide in a way that Sansa had never seen from her before, and if she were not so embarrassed, she would have found herself proud to have brought that expression to Margaery's face, one not brought about by one of Joffrey's ill deeds.

"I can't believe I just..." Sansa started, becoming tongue-tied as she glanced up at Margaery again, the heat flaring down her neck. "I didn't mean..."

Margaery, Seven damn her, looked like she was trying very hard not to smile, and failing.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Margaery assured the other girl, even as Sansa grabbed one of the pillows to cover her head and groaned. "In fact, I'm rather flattered."

"I'd rather not talk about it," she murmured, voice muffled from under the pillow, and then Margaery was reaching down and pulling it off of her, wishing to bury herself forever, if need be.

"Sansa," she murmured, tone exasperatedly fond. "I'm not offended."

Sansa flushed. "I just..." She could hardly bring herself to say the words.

"I act out my fantasies when I am with Joffrey," Margaery said, shrugging, as if the fact that Sansa had called her such a thing did not bother her at all. "It is not so strange a thing."

Sansa sat up a little, suddenly very interested. "What fantasies?"

Margaery turned on her side, reached out to brush some of Sansa's hair off of her chest.

"I don't like being...well, I don't like the feel of a man's cock inside me," she said softly, staring at Sansa's breasts in lieu of her face, but Sansa didn't seem to mind. "It isn't...it's not that it's painful, or anything like that, I just...don't enjoy it." She glanced up at Sansa. "So, while I'm with him, I imagine that I'm with someone else." She swallowed. "Most of the time, I imagine I'm with you."

Sansa guffawed. "You minx!"

Margaery smirked. "And why should I not? I get twice the level of time with you than you ever get with me, that way."

Sansa swallowed. "I was pretending we were in Winterfell," she whispered finally, looking down at their entwined fingers. "And you were my lady, there. It..." she flushed again.

Margaery's smirk dimmed, and she reached out, petting at Sansa's hair. "Don't tell me we were...ah, copulating on some wolf pelts."

Sansa flushed. "I..." She glanced away, and Margaery giggled, reached out and traced the other girl's chin until Sansa looked back at her.

"That's very...exciting," she murmured, and then took Sansa's hand, guided it down between Margaery's legs to let her know just how excited Margaery was by the prospect.

Sansa's breath caught in her throat, and she glanced up, met Margaery's clouded eyes and slipped her fingers inside the other girl, gulped a little at the sensation that never ceased to shock her.

Sansa worked her fingers in and out of Margaery until she had the other gasping atop her, whimpering out noises that Sansa had never thought she would hear from the so controlled Margaery Tyrell.

And then a thought occurred to her, about what Margaery had just confided in her.

"But...how do you keep Joffrey from finding out?" Sansa asked curiously.

Margaery smirked, that part of her firmly back in control as she reached down and helped Sansa's fingers at their work.

"I like to think I have a good enough grasp of my own self-control. And, in any case, Joffrey's ministrations are hardly...terribly distracting."

Sansa found herself collapsing into giggles again, at the other woman's words. "Margaery! What a thing to say."

Margaery shrugged. "I do not think I need to be generous and say anything otherwise," she told the other girl. "Do you?"

Sansa shook her head, amazed despite herself. "Do you truly never slip up?" she asked, and Margaery raised her eyebrows.

"Sometimes. When I'm very lucky not to catch his notice doing so." Margaery's smirk suddenly turned wicked. "But if you'd like to call me mistress here in the bedchamber, I shan't mind..."

Sansa threw her pillow at her with her free hand.

Chapter Text

Sansa had been spending so much time with Margaery lately, so much wonderful, awe-inspiring time with the other girl, that she had quite neglected the Martells.

And so, when they invited her for a turn around the city and Tywin Lannister actually allowed her to go, Sansa had leapt at the chance.

Perhaps it was because Sansa did not want to think about what they were offering her, did not want to think about the fact that, some day, maybe, one of these days, they were going to steal her away from the woman she was coming to...care so deeply about, for her own protection.

Sansa shook her head, swallowed rather hard, and forced that thought from her mind.

She realized that this was the first time since the riot of Flea Bottom that she had been allowed into the city, save for that time with Margaery, but that time had been allowed because Margaery was the Queen.

Tywin Lannister was giving her more freedoms, along with her safety from Joffrey, and Sansa did not know what to think of that.

They had guards, of course, Lannister guards alongside the Dornish men who had followed Oberyn to King's Landing, save for Oberyn himself, but Sansa allowed herself to forget that, for the moment.

The Blackmont women were with them, kindly Jynessa who was older than Sansa but seemed younger in some ways, and her mother, and Myria Jordane.

All lovely women, and Sansa found herself feeling quite at home amongst them, in a way she was rather ashamed to admit she did not feel around Margaery's ladies.

These Dornish women spoke their minds, rather than veiling their words until they could be picked apart a thousand times over, and it was refreshing in a way that was so different from when Sansa had been exposed to the same back in Winterfell.

Unbidden, the memory of Arya, giggling and telling Sansa what she had just overheard Jon saying to Theon, rushed to the forefront of Sansa's mind, Sansa shushing her in turn and telling her that it wasn't proper for ladies to speak of such things, that she was going to tell the septa, and that a lady should be more courteous than to speak of improprieties.

And suddenly, these women and their refreshing openness made bile rise in Sansa's throat.

"What is Oberyn's business in King's Landing?" she blurted, and Ellaria glanced at her, eyes widening as they moved to a vendor.

The other woman eventually composed herself, however, smiling and nodding at the woman selling fabrics, if lamenting that they were not so fine as the ones of Sunspear, and would have little use there, when she returned.

"He was invited for the wedding," Ellaria told her. "The position on the Small Council is a lucrative one, however."

Sansa attempted to parse out a meaning there, wondering if 'lucrative' went deeper than she thought, before shaking her head.

"I understand why you will not tell me," Sansa murmured, as she bent over a piece of fabric and smiled, and pretended the Lannisters would ever let her buy it. The gold cloaks behind her were just far enough away that she dared to say the words.

But in a boisterous crowd of smallfolk, Sansa figured that her whispered words were at least safe.

In Dorne, she doubted she would be forced to wear the same gowns again and again, but that was just the thing.

In Dorne, she would be the same penniless little girl, dependent on others for her happiness, others who she thought were better than the Lannisters, but how should she know?

Ellaria glanced at her sideways.

"And I understand that you cannot tell me when we are leaving, because whatever it is Prince Oberyn is planning, it is dangerous and time sensitive."

Ellaria lowered her head in a nod, but Sansa shook her own.

"But I do not appreciate this," she said, and thought of how Margaery spoke around Joffrey, gently frustrating. "I do not wish to be left in the dark, knowing that at any moment, I could be taken from this place, but with the days dragging on in between." She took a deep breath, glanced at Ellaria and tried not to think about the surprised and reluctantly impressed expression on the other woman's face. "So tell me, please, what does soon mean?"

Ellaria sighed, took Sansa's arm and led her away from the fabric vendor, back into the street, the Dornish ladies walking a good distance behind them, now, distracting the Lannister guards with talk of tourneys and prowess that Sansa only half-heard.

But when Ellaria spoke once more, it was not to answer Sansa's question, just as she had expected, and Sansa barely withheld a sigh.

"You seem happier than I have yet seen you," Ellaria murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind Sansa's ear. "There is an almost...glow about you, these days."

Sansa flushed, tried desperately not to think of why that might be. "Oh?"

Ellaria smirked. "I recognize that glow," she said coyly. "Oberyn Martell was far from my first, but he had a similar effect."

Sansa was full on blushing now, struggling not to think of Margaery, of what they did together in the privacy of their rooms.

"I..."

Ellaria tutted, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, in Dorne," she reassured. "Much as those of King's Landing may say otherwise."

Sansa blinked at her. "You're not..." Angry? She still half-expected that the Martells were being so kind to her because they wanted her marriage prospects, much as they had assured her otherwise half a dozen times.

"Of course not," Ellaria said gently, lowering her hand from Sansa's hair. "But I find myself wondering...with this new beau...is this still what you want?"

Sansa blinked again. "Pardon?" she didn't understand what the other woman was asking.

Ellaria sighed. "Do you still wish to come with us, when we leave here?" she asked, and Sansa's eyes widened.

She had been asking herself the same question half a dozen times each day, each time she kissed Margaery, when she had felt Margaery's wetness on her fingers.

"We will not force you to leave, Sansa," Ellaria said suddenly, urgently, "If that is no longer what you wish. But remember that even the strongest bonds can fade, especially in a climate as merciless as King's Landing."

Sansa swallowed. She knew that. Of course she knew that.

And yet.

As much as she cared about Margaery, as much as she...cherished the things they did together, even if she was not yet able to put a name to them, she knew this was only the calm before the storm.

That this would not last forever, and that when it all came crumbling down, Joffrey would still be there, smirking and ordering her stripped and beaten by his loyal dogs. Her Imp husband would still be there, gently consoling even as he asked her yet again for an heir to the North.

Margaery was beautiful, and kind, and Sansa had been right when she first thought that the other girl's presence in King's Landing had changed everything for Sansa here, in more ways now than then, but being with Margaery, as wonderful as she had found it, was not worth Sansa's life.

She knew that, she only wished the words would articulate themselves.

Ellaria did not seem willing to pressure her, and instead merely said gently, "Soon, Sansa. We do not like holding you to our whims like this any more than you do, but you misunderstand. We will leave this place, when my Oberyn is ready. And it will be soon, now. He...underestimated how long before, but he has not, now. However, until we do, many things could go wrong. The Lannisters could notice the friends he has made here. They could notice the time he has not spent in the brothels. They could realize that our friendship with you is more than it appears. And so, for your own sake, you cannot know when we are leaving until we do, or how, and, for that, I apologize."

Sansa swallowed hard, hope flaring within her despite herself. "But we are leaving?" she repeated, and Ellaria smiled gently, brushed at Sansa's hair again.

"Yes, my sweet girl," she promised, "We are leaving. And you are coming with us."

Chapter Text

Loras had once told her that when the sun had set, no candle could replace it.

Margaery hadn't understood his conviction at the time, hadn't realized that it was possible to feel so strongly about someone else, but she thought she understood it a little now, with Sansa.

Still, Margaery Tyrell would be damned if she let her brother wilt now.

She watched Olyvar slink out of her brother's rooms as she passed him, as they made eye contact for a moment before the young man went back to his other clients, and she pushed open the door to her brother's chambers, foul mood sinking lower.

Her brother was turned away from her when she entered, and she didn't bother to announce her presence as she watched him pull his shirt over his head.

"You shouldn't creep like that, Margy," he said suddenly, and she sighed. "They might start accusing us of what they accuse your royal ass of a husband's parents of."

She sighed again, stepped further into the room, glad she had thought to close to the door before she had let Loras speak.

After all, the conversation ahead was not one that should be had with an open door.

"I'm worried about you, brother," Margaery said honestly, and Loras groaned, turning away from her.

"Must you be?" he asked, pulling on his shirt.

"This isn't like you," Margaery insisted, not one to be put off.

If she could manage Joffrey's tantrums and mercurial moods, she could certainly manage Loras', which she had been doing for far longer, as he should have realized if he was anywhere near in his right mind at the moment.

"Sleeping with whores who work for one of the most dangerous men in Westeros."

"Your husband owns the brothels now?" Loras quipped, and Margaery sighed.

"I'm trying to have a serious conversation with my brother," she said.

"About who I fuck?" he laced up his shirt and reached for his Kingsguard cloak.

"Yes," she deadpanned. Then, carefully, for his look when he had murdered that boy in the square had not quite left her mind of late, "You loved Renly, I know you did."

That got her brother's attention. He turned to her, a pinched smile on his face, eyes sparking. "Margaery, I'm sorry I was late to my guarding duties." He swallowed, looking genuinely contrite, then. "It won’t happen again.”

"Loras." She reached out, placed her hand over his before pulling it back, unsure these days if it was wanted.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I...I don't want to talk about this."

"I know," she said gently, "And I've been trying to avoid it, for you, but I think you need to talk about it with someone. And not one of Littlefinger's workers."

"We don't do much talking," Loras admitted, lips curling into an almost impish smile, which was certainly more than Margaery had needed to know.

Margaery shrugged, not about to be baited out of having this conversation. "Then talk about it with me. Please."

Loras gave her a long, searching look, and then said quietly, "What would you know of any of it? You've never been in love, never known someone so fully as I did Renly." He spun away from her with a growl. "What use is speaking of it?"

Margaery let out a long sigh, leaning her back against the wall by his bed as she felt all of the energy sap from her at his words.

"Because it is the only thing I can think of, seeing you bottle it away. Because I look at you sometimes," she said quietly, "And I see a shadow of what you once were. A man who might at any moment become something far worse than I know you to be."

The boy, bleeding out on the cobblestones, staring up at Margaery with already sightless eyes as his body jerked, the knife slipping free.

Loras' eyes in the next moment, as dead as the child's he had just killed.

"Oh?" he lifted a brow, a closed expression on his face. "And what is that?"

"A living dead man," she said softly, meeting his eyes.

Loras flinched violently, did not deny her words, and something in Margaery's heart clenched at the knowledge that she had been right.

"I miss him," he said quietly, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "I miss him so much that it hurts me, Margaery, physically, so much that sometimes I want to..."

Margaery's hand reached out, clenched around his wrist and didn’t let go this time. "Don't say that," she said fiercely, leaning forward until they were nose to nose. "Do you hear me? Never say that again."

Her brother swallowed hard. "He was stupid," he said suddenly, voice harsh, even as she watched his eyes fill with tears. "Stupid to think that he could be King, stupid to think that Stannis wouldn't kill him before he killed Stannis. He was too damn...delicate for that sort of job."

Margaery felt her throat clog suddenly, despite herself. "He didn't know that, with the greatest amount of soldiers in Westeros and the greatest amount of supplies, as well as a queen, he'd be taken out by a woman in ill-fitting armor, by chance, Loras. No one could have predicted that."

"Well, he should have!" Loras snapped, spinning away from her, surprising her by not grudgingly protesting Brienne of Tarth’s innocence, this time.

She paused, bit her lip. "He loved you, Loras. Loved you so much, as much as you loved him. It's okay to mourn him. Just...don’t destroy yourself doing so."

Loras turned on her, lip curled into a sneer. "And why not? I loved him, and that love was an abomination according to everyone in this city. Do you think the High Septon would agree with that, Marg? That your husband and the rest of King's Landing would agree with that?"

Her face transformed then, into one of fierce anger and emotion as she pulled him into her arms, making him blink in surprise as he saw the tears pooling there.

“Margaery-"

She pulled him close, until they were bare inches apart, and whispered in his ear.

"It doesn't matter. Don't you see? What they think, what they whisper behind the safety of their hands and their walls about you, about me, it means nothing." She pulled back, forced him to look her in the eyes. "All that matters is us. Our family, our feelings, our wants. If it weren't for us, for our family, King's Landing and the High Septon and the rest ofthese bloody sycophants would have fallen under Stannis Baratheon months ago. And it is okay. It's the most right thing in the world, and no one has any right to say otherwise. So mourn him, do you hear me?"

Loras, wide-eyed, nodded, and she reached out, wiping at the tear that stumbled down his cheek.

"Mourn him, Loras, and do whatever it is you must to live on," Margaery whispered, as their foreheads touched. "Whatever it is. But you can't avenge him from the grave, and I fear that a grave is what you will find if you continue on like this." She swallowed hard. “And you can’t go there, because I need you here with me. I need my brother.”

Loras swallowed hard, breaths ragged as he met her eyes. “I won’t,” he promised throatily, and Margaery smiled, leaned her forehead against his and closed her eyes. “Gods, Margaery, I swear I won’t.”

She glanced up, pressed a delicate kiss to his forehead.

"I believe you,” she whispered, and forced herself to do just that, in this moment, even as her mind whirred with a way to make it so that she might do so without trying, next time her brother lied to her.

Loras leaned into her touch like a drowning man, and Margaery closed her eyes, kept her lips pressed to his forehead in the fear that, the moment she pulled back, he would return to the lost soul he had been just moments before.

"Margaery," her brother whispered finally, when the silence had grown too long and she knew he would pull away once more, as he always did. "There's something you should know. About Sansa Stark."

Chapter Text

Sansa gasped, arching upward on the bed, her legs spread apart as she reached out and pulled at Margaery's hair, one hand grasping at Margaery's shoulder just to keep herself from succumbing to the strange weightlessness she felt as the other girl's tongue worked expertly inside of her.

For a moment, Sansa could feel nothing but the sensation of Margaery's tongue rolling against her insides, pushing further than it yet had. Margaery's fingers, digging into Sansa's thighs so hard that Sansa was sure they would leave crescent shaped marks that would not fade for hours.

Not that she would want them to.

"Margaery," Sansa gasped again, pushing her womanhood down experimentally onto Margaery's wet, parted lips and enjoying the small moan that escaped them when she did so, before Margaery hurried back to her task once more, her lips pressing short, hard kisses into the folds of Sansa's womanhood.

"Gods, Margaery, please," she vaguely heard herself begging, feeling as though some stranger were saying those words for her, for she hardly felt capable of moving her own lips.

In this moment, Sansa could forget everything. Could forget that the Martells were taking her soon from this place, could forget that Tywin Lannister, fierce as he was, was the only thing standing between her and another beating from Joffrey.

Could forget that Margaery would never be hers.

Margaery's tongue pushed against a part of her that it had never touched before, and Sansa shouted at the sensation it caused, forgetting her worries in that moment completely and closing her eyes, biting down hard enough on her lower lip to draw blood.

Strangely, it didn't hurt to do so, even as Sansa felt blood trickling down her chin.

Sansa's whole body flinched again when Margaery's tongue roved deeper, still touching that spot, that wonderful spot that Sansa suddenly with Margaery had found long ago, Margaery's hands grasping at Sansa's thighs more tightly, fingers twitching with the strength of her hold on them.

"Margaery," Sansa whispered, moving her fingers to tangle in the other girl's hair until she was certain she had ripped some of it, and Margaery groaned beneath her but did not pull away.

And then Sansa came, came with blackness encircling the edges of her vision and a shattered cry that she tried to cover up but didn't quite think she had succeeded at, and when she opened her eyes again, Margaery was sitting before her on the edge of the bed, grinning as she licked at her own lips with her tongue.

Sansa watched the motion for a long moment, strangely reminded of one of Tommen's cats by the sight, before she fell back onto Margaery's bed, boneless, her whole body feeling made of liquid.

It did not take long before Margaery collapsed down beside her on the bed, tangling their legs together and laying on her side so that she might lean against Sansa, looking entirely comfortable and sated.

Margaery reached out, fingers brushing at the blood drying on Sansa's chin, wiping it away with a gentle swipe, before brushing the blood off against the sheets.

Sansa watched the motion, strangely entranced by the sight of Margaery with blood on her fingers, oddly reminded of a dream she'd had, what felt like a lifetime ago, of Margaery, covered in Joffrey's blood, kissing her.

The blood disappeared on Margaery's sheets as if it had never been, and Margaery lay back down, kissing up Sansa's arm, to the crook of her shoulder, down her neck with all of the patience of an artist memorizing their figure.

Sansa sighed, wishing this moment could last longer, even while she knew it could not.

"I have to go soon," Sansa murmured, even as she hated herself for speaking and bothering the contented silence. "Ellaria Sand wished to speak with me about the gowns she bought in the city the other day."

Beside her, Margaery's fingers stilled in their gentle tracing of Sansa's nipple with her thumb, but only for a moment, so small a time that Sansa almost didn't notice it.

"Oh?" Margaery asked, her expression suddenly much more closed off than it had been a moment before.

Sansa sighed. "She insisted," she murmured, for even though Sansa had bought no clothes, she was quite sure some of the fabrics Ellaria had purchased had not been for herself or her legendary Sand Snake daughters.

And, much as she disliked the need for it, Sansa would not refuse the charity, much as it made her uncomfortable to accept it, even knowing that when she reached Dorne she would be reliant upon it.

And Sansa did enjoy the Dornish style, much as it made her blush to think about the gown Prince Oberyn had gifted her and which she had never worn yet in any public place.

“Prince Oberyn and his people seem very interested in you,” Margaery said quietly, when she did speak again.

Sansa froze for a moment, and then glanced over at her lover, forced a smile that she hoped looked mischievous rather than guilty.

“Does he?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded less suspicious to Margaery's ears than it did to Sansa's own.

Margaery smiled knowingly, bent down to kiss Sansa's nipple, rolling it between her lips until Sansa gasped, surprised at her body's own ability to react so quickly after being sated.

"Yes, I rather think so." Her tone turned teasing as she lifted her head, and Sansa immediately mourned the loss of her lips on Sansa's now hardened nipple. "Tell me, Sansa, is he falling for you?”

Sansa sat up abruptly. “What? No. He...He has Ellaria," she said, flushing as she could not quite find a title for the Dornishwoman who had been so kind to her recently.

Margaery rolled her eyes, though her expression remained fond. "The one hardly forbids the other."

Sansa cleared her throat. "He is much older than me. He has daughters my age."

Margaery snorted. "I have noticed that neither does that matter to a man, my dear," she murmured, reaching out and brushing her finger in a small circle around Sansa's dusky nipple.

Sansa sucked in a breath. "I don't think he..." she shook her head. "Whatever it is he's interested in us for, I think it has more to do with my husband than me," she lied, and hated herself for the lie.

Remembered how Lord Baelish had told her that she was the worst liar in King's Landing, and wondered if Margaery, who was sometimes disturbingly good at it, believed the lie, in this moment.

Margaery eyed her for a moment, and then smiled in amusement, her eyes going wide. "You think he's in love with Tyrion?" she asked, and Sansa giggled.

"Of course not, I..." she trailed off, cast an accusing glance in Margaery's direction. "You're teasing me."

Margaery's lips twitched. "Am I? I told you, Sansa, your husband is quite...infamous for his dalliances. Perhaps not quite as much as Prince Oberyn, and perhaps not quite with the same...proclivities, but-"

Sansa threw another pillow at her, watched it bounce off Margaery's head and disrupt her already mussed hair. "By the gods, Margaery, I don't need to think of such things."

Margaery giggled, then, too, bent down and kissed her. "And why ever not?" she continued teasing, reaching out and brushing Sansa's hair behind her ears. "That's quite the...poignant image."

"Margaery!" Sansa gasped, flushing. "What a thing to say." She shook her head. "You're not even..."

Margaery grinned. "So? And why should I not say it? You've not given me any reason to think otherwise, have you?"

Sansa sighed. "I should probably go," she said, a tad resentfully toward Ellaria Sand, much as she knew she could not refuse the woman's help.

Margaery's lips closed around Sansa's nipple again before she could quite sit up straight. "How about one more round?" she asked, waggling her eyebrows suggestively, and Sansa groaned, utterly helpless to refuse that.

Chapter Text

Sansa had been correct about the gown, and after the Martells had finished having Sansa fitted for it by their own seamstresses, rather than any Lannister seamstress who would go and tell tales to Lord Tywin, Sansa had felt a little more comfortable in accepting the gift.

After all, as Ellaria had assured her, she would look the height of fashion wearing it, in Dorne, and the gown had not been so scandalous as the last one, much to Sansa's modest relief.

Sansa had stared at herself as she was fitted for a gown she would never wear in King's Landing, and had thought that Sansa of the South would be someone very different from Sansa Lannister.

The gown was not yet finished, and already Sansa found herself worrying about it. Shae could find it at any moment, relay her concerns to Tyrion.

Sansa knew that, while Margaery often came to the chambers Sansa shared with Lord Tyrion, she would have no reason to go through Sansa's wardrobe, and yet Sansa had an irrational fear that Margaery would do just that, would find the gown and know exactly what Sansa and the Martells were planning.

She did not know why she had not told Margaery about these plans. Knew, on some level, that the other girl could at least be trusted not to tell Joffrey, that while Margaery would miss her and likely be angry that she was leaving with enemies of the Reach, she would not betray Sansa's trust like that.

And still, Sansa had kept her silence, and she liked to tell herself that it was because she did not know if she could completely trust Margaery to choose Sansa over her loyalty to her family, which would surely wish to use such information. Did not wish to put Margaery into a position where she would have to.

But the truth of it was, this was not why Sansa had kept her silence, either.

She supposed it could be bravery, to embrace what could very well be her last days with Margaery in a way that would only bring one of them pain.

But Sansa rather thought it was cowardice, to refuse to tell the woman she cared about that she was leaving, because Sansa did not want to face Margaery's reaction to hearing it. Did not want to say goodbye.

She sent a slanted glance Margaery's way, where the girl walked beside her in the gardens. Margaery had been talking up a storm for some time now, her pretty smile that Sansa so loved in place.

Apparently, Margaery was worried that some of the Kingsguard might have been growing suspicious, about their extended time in the bedchamber, and wanted to do more things with Sansa outside of the bedchamber.

Not that Sansa minded. As much as she loved the things Margaery did to her, she simply loved being in the other woman's company, as well.

And the gardens were a nice enough backdrop, for that. They were where Margaery seemed most comfortable, and Sansa was most assured they would not be overheard, even if they were not whispering treason in the dark.

"And then Alla said that Alysanne's little brother has been proposing to Megga on and off since he met her last summer at the tourney at House Bulwer, and Megga didn't deny it," Margaery said, with a little laugh. "I can't believe she, of all people, managed to keep that from the rest of us. Megga is a horrible liar."

And we're all of us better liars than you, Lord Baelish whispered in her mind, and Sansa shook her head, forced herself to smile at Margaery's words.

"Well, is she going to accept him?" she asked, laughing lightly.

Margaery snorted. "In a few years, maybe. He doesn't come with a title, or the household Alysanne will, when she comes of age, and he's younger than her, of course."

Sansa blinked, wondered what this would have felt like in another life, one where her family had survived. Would she now be as flippant and amused as Margaery about Bran, if he had fallen head over heels for some girl, Jeyne, perhaps?

She swallowed. There was no use thinking of such things. Bran was dead, after all, and Jeyne was probably dead, too.

"But I doubt it," Margaery continued, smirking. "You know Megga gets a proposal every week, from a new suitor?"

"Every week?" Sansa repeated incredulously.

Margaery nodded, smirk growing. "That's more than I ever got, before I married Renly. Most of them have never even met her, but they send such pretty letters." She snorted. "She feeds them to her pet parrot, the one her father sent her from Braavos."

Sansa snorted, and then colored at the unladylike noise, but Margaery seemed as amused as she.

"Do they know? That she's putting their pretty words to such good use?" Sansa asked, and thought that if she ever got such proposals, she would never feed them to birds.

Margaery laughed. "Probably. It won't stop them, though, even if they do find out about it. They're quite determined." She shrugged one shoulder. "They would do better to wait until Alysanne comes of age, though. Megga hardly has a profitably dowry in comparison."

Sansa swallowed at that, humor abruptly gone as she remembered why she was considered such a bargaining chip. Not because of her own beauty or humor, but because she was the heir to Winterfell, now that Robb was dead.

"Lady Sansa," a familiar voice called at that moment, and Sansa glanced up, glad for the reprieve from such thoughts, only to see another reminder of them.

Oberyn Martell was walking through the rose gardens to reach them, glancing down at the thorned bushes as though they had personally offended him in some way, before he smiled at the sight of Sansa.

"I have been looking for you," he continued, that smile not dimming for a moment as he took in the sight of Sansa and Margaery walking together. "There is something Ellaria wishes to discuss. A dress, I think?"

Sansa swallowed, gave him a little curtsey because it was the proper thing to do, and she would not forget that in Dorne. "Prince Oberyn."

Margaery cleared her throat then, rather pointedly.

"Queen Margaery," Prince Oberyn said, voice rather stiff as he turned and gave her a rather per functionary bow.

Margaery eyed him with a coldness that Sansa had never seen in her eyes before, not even reserved for Cersei.

"Prince Oberyn. I see that the reports are true, and you pleasure us with your continued stay in King's Landing, after all."

She hardly sounded pleased at the inane observation. Instead, she made it sound like all but a declaration of war.

Prince Oberyn dipped his head, looking faintly bemused. "Indeed. I have found the climate here rather...pleasing."

Margaery stiffened, glanced between the two of them for a moment before letting go of Sansa's arm, where she held it. "Lady Sansa, I will leave you now. I am sure that my lord husband wants for me."

And with that, she was gone, turning on her heel and swanning away with all of the airs of a born princess.

Sansa stared after her in confusion, for Margaery had gone without even a smile goodbye, or a squeeze of Sansa's arm as she so often did, and Sansa wondered what had so bothered the other girl, with the arrival of Prince Oberyn.

"Sansa?" she heard Prince Oberyn call, and she turned to him, blinking. "Something on your mind?" he asked, and Sansa saw that he was also looking after Margaery.

Sansa shook her head. "Of course not. Pardon, I just...Lady Ellaria wished to speak about the dress?"

He smirked. "No, not really. I think it is coming along quite well, but then, I am told I know very little about these things."

Sansa stared at him. "Then what it is you wished to speak about?" she asked in confusion.

He smiled, reaching out to take the very same arm Margaery had just been holding onto, motioned for Sansa to continue walking down the rose path, and Sansa looked around, realized they had no observers, once again.

"Prince Oberyn-"

"There is a rumor, about King's Landing," Oberyn interrupted her, voice absurdly gentle, though in the next moment Sansa realized why, "That your lord father wrote down King Robert's intention for him to become the Lord Regent of Robert's children, and that your lord father looked in a book, and proclaimed for Stannis Baratheon, instead. The Grandmaester knew the name of this book alone, but Cersei wished to have it destroyed only to be convinced not to. She must have spoken of it, given her predilection for wine."

Sansa felt her throat grow rather tight. "Prince Oberyn, I don't think-"

"What book was that, Sansa?" he continued, stopping on the rose path and turning to look at her with an intense gaze.

She swallowed, thought of the book that had started her renewed friendship with Margaery after the other girl had become queen, that day in the library.

"I..."

"You must know," Oberyn continued, and there was something almost frantic in his gaze, something that brought Sansa up short.

She had the strangest feeling that she shouldn't say. She knew, of course; Cersei had spoken of it to her once, while deep in her cups. She had grabbed Sansa by the chin, tilted her head one way and then another, and remarked idly that she looked more a Tully then a Stark, and perhaps that meant her father ought to be more concerned about his own line than someone else’s.

That had been hint enough, but then Sansa had found the proof, in the book Margaery had found her reading, that one day in the library.

"The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses," she whispered, not quite able to meet Prince Oberyn's eyes as she spoke, though she couldn't say why.

Instead, Sansa's eyes were drawn to a yellow rose on the bush behind him, still a bud, but blooming, even as she watched it, covered in tiny, red thorns.

Oberyn made a noise in the back of his throat.

"I see," was all he said, finally, and Sansa believed that he did see, just as Margaery had seen.

They all saw, they just didn't care enough to do anything about it. And she didn’t understand what Oberyn thought he might do about it; she had heard of the letters Stannis Baratheon had sent throughout the realm, proclaiming the Lannister children bastards. That had done nothing, just as her father’s words had done nothing.

"Why?" she asked suddenly, gaze flicking back to Prince Oberyn. "What does it matter, what my father read in a book once?"

He shook his head. "Lady Sansa..."

Sansa saw a gold cloak moving towards them out of the corner of her eye, swept desperately away from Prince Oberyn and began walking down the path, away from him, before their interaction could become suspicious.

She did not dare utter a curse when she heard him walking behind her, moving closer, then passing her.

"Be ready," Prince Oberyn whispered to her as he walked on. "Be ready very soon, Lady Sansa."

She blinked after him, and wondered what it was that Prince Oberyn was waiting for, what it was she waited for now, too.

For it was painfully clear that, whatever his business here still was, it was time sensitive, or he would have left with her long ago. Whatever danger it was, she resented that he would risk her for it, even if she had no choice but to allow him just that.

Chapter Text

Finding Margaery after that little interlude with Oberyn proved more difficult than Sansa had thought, and Sansa found herself aimlessly wandering the halls of the Red Keep for some time, searching for the other girl.

She eventually found a crowd outside the throne room, a group of gaggling roses who would no doubt know of their queen's location if no one else did, and Sansa found herself moving closer, the words on the tip of her tongue.

Apparently, something had just happened within the throne room, even if most of these girls had not been there to see it, but Sansa had found that most of the Tyrells were dreadful gossips, and so she waited with them.

"A tournament, isn't it grand?" one of the ladies, Sansa thought it might be a Redwyne, whispered to her. "Oh, I shall love to see it!"

Sansa wondered if the girl thought it would be something out of the songs, as she once had, before she saw Gregor Clegane unhorse and kill a man.

“Whatever for?” she asked. It was not Joffrey’s nameday, after all, nor Margaery’s.

“The King has ordered a celebration,” the girl explained. “Because we have not been openly fighting in months, and he believes that there ought to be more knights pledging themselves to the Kingsguard.”

Sansa raised a brow, wondered why Lord Tywin had thought that necessary. It was true that there were few enough of them now, and she supposed that Lord Tywin could always do with some soldiers knights explicitly to him, for all that they served the King, but it was a rather strange time to go about it.

"Oh," Sansa murmured, and the girl's face fell, clearly affected by Sansa's lack of enthusiasm.

But then she brightened. "Oh, I shall have to have more gowns made," the Redwyne girl went on. "And I do so hope that one of the knights gives me their favor..."

She had spun away at this point, on to the next poor soul who would be forced to hear her ramblings, and Sansa sighed, for if the King was in there making plans for a tournament, no doubt Margaery was beside him.

She left then, the dreary thought on her mind that, unlike the Redwyne girl, there was no chance of Sansa having a new gown made for the tourney, for all that the Lannisters were no longer allowing Joffrey to torment her.

Sansa could hardly remember when she herself had been just like that Redwyne girl, once. Things had changed so much since then for her, and she found the little girl she had once been foolish and flighty, and yet, Sansa found it rather comforting to know that such people still existed in the world.

It meant, perhaps, that all was not completely lost, if little girls could still dream of songs, even if Sansa no longer could.

She didn't know if she believed that, but it was nice to think it, if only for a moment.

"Lady Sansa," a voice called from the gaggle behind her, and Sansa bit back a sigh as she turned, only to find the Lady Alla hurrying toward her, eyes blown rather wide and lips twitching. Sansa could not tell if it was from amusement or something else.

"Lady Alla," she said. "Is something the matter?"

The other girl shook her head, reached out and took Sansa's hand. "I'm supposed to take you somewhere," she whispered, feather soft, into Sansa's ear.

Sansa raised a brow, had a pretty good idea of where this place was even as she asked, "Oh?"

Lady Alla nodded, a pretty blush creeping up her thin neck. "The Queen will join you once she is finished in there." She jerked her thumb back toward the audience chamber.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek in amusement. "Is she worried that I'll disappear?" she asked playfully, and Alla's eyes widened.

"I'm sure that's not it, my lady, I can-"

Sansa took pity on her, giving the younger girl's hand a squeeze. Gods, she was hardly older than Arya had been when they had first arrived in King's Landing, though the two girls were as different as night and day.

"That was a jape, Lady Alla," she said, and Alla sagged in relief.

"Oh," she murmured, and Sansa giggled and could not quite remember the last time she had done so while not in Margaery's presence.

Then, Alla said brightly, "I suppose this tourney will bring many handsome knights to King's Landing."

Sansa withheld a sigh, supposed that she would not escape the musings of little girls wanting to find their songs, after all.

Sansa supposed she should not be so rough on the girls. She did not know when it had become abhorrent to her, after all, but she had certainly been older than Alla, in any case.

"Tell me, Alla," she said suddenly, determined to change the subject and it striking her that she very much could find something else to speak of with this girl, "How long have you been one of Margaery's ladies?"

Alla accepted the change in topic quickly enough, still smiling as she dragged Sansa along. Sansa was beginning to wonder if she ever stopped.

"Not long," she said, shrugging. "Margaery...er, the Queen requested me as one of her ladies when we left for King's Landing." Her smile, if possible, grew. "I've been to Highgarden loads of times before, though."

They had gotten away from the others now, were winding through corridors Sansa had found far more familiar these days, but she followed Alla along nonetheless.

"I hear it is beautiful there," Sansa said, for she had lost track of the many times when Alla had told her so.

Alla nodded enthusiastically. "It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen," she said, clapping her hands together. "My papa and mama live just outside of Highgarden, in the Reach, but I went there often to play with Margaery or with Lady Leonnette's children, before the war."

Sansa smiled. "Lady Leonette is a very kind woman," she remembered. "She taught me to play the harp."

Alla nodded again. "I tried to learn the harp as well, only, I was never any good at it." She giggled. "Margaery called me a lost cause."

Sansa thought of the last time she had attempted to play the harp, of how Margaery had caught her by surprise and stirred feelings in Sansa that she hadn't wanted to admit she felt for the other girl, and found herself blushing fiercely.

"Of course," Alla continued, with a sly look in her eyes now, "Margaery was never any good when she was younger, either. Cousin Garlan and Loras used to tease her mercilessly about it."

Sansa gaped at her. "She had me to believe that she was perfection itself," she said, mock-scandalized. Of course, Margaery had never said precisely that, but still.

Alla giggled. "She was horrible when she was younger. Oh, she was accomplished at the needle and horseback riding, but music was never her strength. Until she sat down for one whole week with poor Leonette at the beginning of Garlan's marriage and forced the poor lady to teach her to play the thing out of pure stubbornness."

Sansa smiled, partially from amusement and partially because she could quite imagine a young, stubborn Margaery sitting down to a task until she had perfected it.

The smile faded, however, as the odd image of a young Margaery, understanding that she would one day need to charm her way into her husband's bed, "practiced" at that as well.

The thought came from nowhere, and yet, the moment it had arrived, Sansa found that she could not get it from her mind, could only walk beside Alla as the young girl chattered away so amiably to her captive audience, thoughts irrationally consumed with the number of times Margaery would have had to practice this particular art, to so enchant even Joffrey Baratheon.

With the irrational fear that Sansa Stark was just another form of practice.

Her thoughts turned to her septa, to how the woman had once told Sansa that when the time came for a man and a woman to understand that they wanted to be with each other, they would confess this to one another in the form of their holy vows, bound together for the rest of their lives.

There were many things about that situation that were contradicted by Sansa's own, not the least of which that Margaery was already bound to a man for whom she held no love at all, but Sansa still found their own situation confusing, all the same.

She knew that she enjoyed Margaery in a way she should not, knew that she wanted something more from the other girl than stolen moments in their respective bedchambers, but Sansa could no more name that feeling than she could promise Margaery to be with her forever when she knew the Martells were planning to take her from this place soon enough.

How long could it last, what lay between them?

"-And when Leonette gifted Margaery with a harp for her nameday, and I was there so I know, Loras fell over laughing, because everyone knew that Margaery wasn't any good, until she sat down and played it." Alla shrugged. "She's quite good now, but not as good as Leonette. I'm sure it's eating away at her."

Sansa flinched, and then tried to hide the expression underneath a grin. "I'm sure," she murmured with just enough teasing in her voice, and Alla giggled again.

Sansa was rather relieved when they managed to find Margaery's chambers, despite their meandering pace and Alla's gossip mongering, innocent though it was, and Sansa moved toward one of the divans to collapse into it before she realized that to Alla, it might seem strange to see Sansa so at comfort in Margaery's private rooms.

Alla was moving toward the bookshelf Margaery had had installed in her chambers the other day in any case, where Dance of Dragons stood beside half a dozen other well-leafed through stories, some of which Sansa remembered from the songs of her own childhood, and some of which had been clearly borrowed from the Keep's library.

And among them, standing as tall and proud as any of the others, The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses.

Sansa flinched when she saw it, racked her mind for any reason that Margaery should possess that book when the last time Sansa had come across it had been when both of them had confessed their true feelings about Joffrey.

And now Prince Oberyn had taken an interest in the very same book, had outright asked Sansa about her father's experience with it. Sansa shivered and glanced back at Alla again, watched as the young girl plucked some sweet song about a kindly and brave knight from Margaery's shelf and tucked it under her arm.

"That seems an awfully young book for Margaery to still have," Sansa said teasingly, focusing on that book in lieu of another, and Alla's gaze swept towards her own almost guiltily.

"She had a copy, a long time ago, in Highgarden," Alla said, with a little shrug. "It was my favorite, but then one day when they were younger Ser Loras and she got in an argument, and she threw his favorite hunting knife over the library's balcony, and he ripped her favorite passages out of the book. Lady Alerie made them apologize and then be separate from each for a whole week, and after that they never had a serious argument again."

Sansa jerked, tried to equate the boy and girl in that story to the patient Margaery and chivalric Ser Loras, and couldn't quite do so, no matter how young they might have been at the time.

The story reminded her uncomfortably of herself and Arya.

"So when we got to King's Landing and Margaery found this book in the library," Alla continued, almost petting the spine of the book under her arm, "She stole it for me to read."

Sansa giggled. "You've painted quite a picture of her," she said.

Alla grinned, leaned forward to whisper in a conspiratorial tone, "And I have loads more."

"Thank you, Alla," Margaery's voice said from the door, and Sansa jerked, having not even noticed the other girl's presence. Margaery was smiling impishly at Alla when Sansa turned, though her hazel eyes flicked to Sansa in amusement. "That will be all, I think."

Alla blinked, staring at a place somewhere between the two of them, before nodding. "Right," she said, teeth clicking together as she ended the last word.

Margaery rolled her eyes, though her expression was fond. "Alla?" she said.

Alla glanced toward her queen.

If anything, Margaery's fond exasperation only seemed to grow, with this. "That means you can go," she told the other girl, a smile in her voice if not on her lips.

Alla blinked between the two of them, and then flushed crimson. "Oh! Right."

And then the younger girl was practically skipping from the room, shutting the door silently behind her, just so that the latch flipped shut upon her exist.

Sansa stared after her in amazement, wondered when she had learned that neat trick.

And then she found herself wondering how many others among Margaery's ladies knew of this great secret they were keeping, for Alla had clearly been able to infer why Margaery wanted some privacy, as young as she was.

How many other times had Alla latched that door for her lady?

"Are you quite all right?" Margaery asked her, suddenly standing directly in front of her where Sansa had not noticed her before, reaching out to caress Sansa's cheek, which had no doubt gone rather green.

"I...I'm fine," Sansa stuttered out, pulling Margaery back into her arms, pretending that the thought that the Martells would be dragging her from this place, and very soon, was farther from her mind.

It didn't matter, in this moment. Only Margaery mattered, she was certain.

"Sansa," Margaery said, her voice commanding that Sansa speak, tell her what it was she wanted to know.

And then, because she needed to distract herself somehow, Sansa forced herself to smile and say, "this is meant to be the Maidenvault, Your Grace," Sansa scolded playfully, for all that they had desecrated it many times before.

Margaery laughed. "Do you think that stopped Baelor the Blessed's sweet sisters?" she whispered against Sansa's chest, leaning down and taking one of her nipples into her mouth.

Sansa gasped, arching forward and barely withholding a low moan. "T-They were sisters, though, how could they-"

Margaery gave a low, rumbling laugh that...did things to Sansa, made her skin tremble where they touched.

"My sweet dove," she murmured. "You must know your history. The Targaryens married their sisters, and you and I and Loras and Renly are not the only ones in Westerosi history to have engaged in...carnal relations that the Seven frowns upon."

Sansa wanted to push her away and tell her that she was not a fool, that everyone knew about Cersei and Jaime, but then Margaery's teeth grazed against her nipple, and she could barely think, let alone speak enough to say such a thing.

Instead, little grunting moans that turned her skin crimson left her, and Margaery's hands snaked down her neck, rubbing against the tint as if she thought it might come off with her fingers.

And then she giggled. "Does that bother you?" Margaery asked sweetly. "That the Seven would frown upon us?"

Sansa bit her lip, noticed the look of almost disappointment in Margaery's eyes before Sansa even opened her mouth.

Sansa knew that, months ago, she might have said yes. Might have said that the thought of doing something which she had been taught by her septa and the rest of Westeros for the whole of her young life was wrong horrified her.

But Margaery had awoken feelings in Sansa that she had never felt before, and she knew that sounded like something out of the songs in itself, when she had just judged another girl for the same, but Sansa could not help how she felt.

Could not help clinging to the one person in her life who made sense to her, the one person disposed to be kind to her.

And if the gods thought that was wrong, there was nothing Sansa could do about it.

The gods, after all, had not thought it was wrong to kill all that remained of her family, to toss the Stark name to the wind.

Sansa flipped the other girl onto her back, and Margaery gasped, stared up at her with wide blown eyes.

"My people follow the Old Gods," Sansa whispered, trailing kisses down Margaery's neck as the other girl exposed it further. Even as she knew the words rang emptily, for she had never been more than prey since she had arrived in King's Landing, hardly a wolf at all. "They don't care about such things."

Margaery smirked, lifted her head to kiss Sansa once more, their lips brushing together in a way that sent a spark straight through Sansa.

"My wolf," Margaery murmured, voice breathy in a way Sansa had never heard it before, pulling away to reach out and brush at Sansa's hair, her fingers running through it and resting on Sansa's naked, heaving breast.

Sansa sucked in a breath, her thighs incredibly wet for how little they had done so far. Something of this must have shown in her eyes, for when she glanced down once more, Margaery's breaths had grown ragged with want.

Sansa bent down, kissing Margaery's heavy lips and tasting pleasure on them, kissing them again and again until she felt Margaery start to wilt beneath her, felt Margaery's hands lifting to fist in Sansa's hair.

And she allowed the scrape of Margaery's teeth against her delicate skin to scrub away the worries she'd had earlier, the later feel of Margaery's tongue inside of her to force out the thoughts that perhaps they were both lying to one another every time they took each other to bed.

And when Sansa came, whimpering Margaery's name, and saw the spark of lust and victory in Margaery's eyes as it always was there when she drove Sansa over the edge, Sansa absolutely was not wondering whether that spark of victory came from watching Sansa Stark come undone beneath her, or from watching her latest bit of practice do so.

Chapter Text

"When we get to Dorne," Ellaria said, her voice sweet in a way that Sansa had once found comforting, like that of a mother to her daughter, and now found cloying, with every secret it pretended to divulge and did not. "Oberyn will send you to the Water Gardens, where some of my younger daughters live even now. I think you shall be quite happy there."

She knew that Ellaria could see Sansa's hesitation in these recent days since she had outright confronted the other woman, an action which it still made her shiver to think that she had done, wondered idly if she could smell it as a wolf ought to have been able to, the indecision racing through Sansa's thoughts.

Still, Sansa nodded and smiled.

"I've heard that they are quite lovely," she agreed, going back to her sewing and pretending that she had not already pricked her fingers half a dozen times since Ellaria had requested her presence here to work on the gown which Ellaria had bought for her.

She did not doubt that it was lovely there, that the Water Gardens were a place of beauty that made King's Landing simply pale in comparison, for all that it wasn't in this wretched city, but Sansa was antsy.

Ellaria had promised her that they were leaving soon, that Sansa ought not to give up and that they were being deliberately vague for her own protection, but, far from reassure her, the words had only served to make Sansa more nervous, and she did not know why.

Did not know if it was because she hated not knowing when it would happen, or the thought of leaving Margaery behind when it did.

Which was ridiculous, of course. As much as she liked the time she spent with Margaery, sleeping with the King's wife was always a pertinent reminder of how endangered Sansa was here, how unsafe.

"Sansa," Ellaria said suddenly, a questioning tone in her voice that Sansa couldn't help but think boded ill, "I am sorry if Prince Oberyn's words the other day disturbed you."

Sansa swallowed, knowing immediately to what she referred. How could she not, after all?

Sansa licked dry lips. "I...I worry," she whispered, finally.

Ellaria nodded, tone sympathetic. "Because of your father."

Sansa's forehead wrinkled and she lifted her head. "What Prince Oberyn is doing..." she took a careful breath, folded her hands in her lap. "What I assume Prince Oberyn is doing, based on what he spoke of..." she shook her head. "The Lannisters will not allow him to do it."

Ellaria moved then, getting out of her chair and dropping to her knees in front of Sansa, the pose demanding that Sansa look down at her.

"Prince Oberyn will be quite as safe as he can, my love," Ellaria murmured. "I promise you."

Sansa hissed in a breath. "I..."

"Sansa," Ellaria said, voice careful, "Is there anything you know about that book? Anything...beyond what Lord Stannis released in those letters? Something that would make the Lannisters want to hide it even now."

Sansa swallowed. "I..."

It is in the Queen's bedchambers, now.

"Oh, you needn't worry," Ellaria said, waving a hand at her companions. "Your words are safe here."

Sansa swallowed, didn't know if any words were ever safe in King's Landing. "I know nothing more than that," she murmured quietly. "I swear. My father...well, he did not have much time to speak with me."

She allowed some of the pain she felt to bleed into her expression, hoped that it would be enough to convince the woman to stop pressing where Sansa could not bear to be pressed.

Why did Margaery have the book? What possible reason could she give for it, if Sansa would have asked her?

Ellaria's face transformed into an expression of sympathy. "Poor child. I am sorry to have dredged up such painful memories."

But clearly, she and Oberyn had some purpose for doing so. A purpose which meant that, whatever it was they were searching for and would not tell her about, that something becoming painfully more clear to Sansa by the day, they had not yet found it.

Which meant that they were not yet ready to leave, and every minute that they dallied here was another in which Sansa found herself almost spilling her tale to Margaery.

"Stannis Baratheon already sent out letters to all of the realm that our King was not...legitimate," Sansa said, choosing her words carefully. "I don't understand what you attempt, here."

Ellaria sighed, patted Sansa's hand. "Your needlework is looking quite impressive, for a girl your age," she said, instead of answering, but this time, Sansa saw the quiet warning in her eyes, remembered her words on their journey into the town. "None of my girls have your proficiency." She paused, though her smile was rather forced. "Nor your patience."

Sansa merely hoped it would be worth it, in the end.

Chapter Text

He'd called for her at a time when he was usually busy with matters of state, though Margaery supposed that was hardly the case now, and she should have seen that coming.

She only hoped that Sansa would understand, and would not think Margaery's absence some reflection on her. Sansa was terribly insecure about such things, sometimes.

"My love," Margaery murmured, stepping into the room and giving her husband a wide smile to make up for their time apart of late. Joffrey would expect her to be just as angry over it as he, just as willing to be with her husband at any opportunity.

Joffrey stepped forward, ignoring the threatening presence of Ser Boros in the corner as he pulled his wife into his arms and breathed shakily into her neck, hiding his expression from her.

Margaery hated it when he did that, when she could not read the expression on his face.

"I would have you," Joffrey gritted out a moment later, looking terribly frustrated, and for a moment Margaery wondered why before remembering his grandfather's edicts about what Joffrey could and could not do with his time.

Until you learn to appreciate your wife...

She wondered how long Tywin would force Joffrey to wait. He must understand that iposing so many rules on Joffrey was not safe for whomever Joffrey decided to turn his ire upon now that he could no longer touch Lady Sansa.

And Margaery knew that, given the choice, her family would always chose Margaery over the girl who had not given them the North, if she gave them even a hint that they needed to.

She gave her husband an impish smile. "Then why don't you, my love?" she whispered, leaning close, letting him inhale her and able to tell by the dilation of his eyes that he had done just that.

"Have me right here, before Lord Tywin can send any more of his cronies to spy on us," she murmured, and Joffrey's next breath came out in a needy pant.

"My queen..." he said, glancing toward the door, and...

Ah, that was right. Margaery had almost forgotten.

Her husband was a coward.

She bit back a sigh, for while she had no real wish to fuck her husband, she also had no wish to receive another lecture at the mouth of her father for her inability to as of yet provide him with a grandson to sit on the Iron Throne.

"Lord Tywin to see you, Your Grace," a servant said, opening the door to make the announcement, this one particular skittish as he stared at the floor in lieu of the King, and Joffrey groaned, clearly relieved for the excuse for all that he did not wish to admit it.

"I hate my grandfather," Joffrey hissed out, pulling back from Margaery as that very man pushed open the doors to her chambers and entered the room.

Still, Margaery giggled at her husband's words, letting her mouth curve up into an amused smile that she didn't feel.

Lord Tywin pretended not to hear, however, stepping further into the room as two Kingsguard flanked him, and Margaery blinked at that little subtle show of power.

They all knew who was running Westeros, she thought idly. There was no need to rub it in, especially when the subtly would no doubt be lost on something of Joffrey's caliber.

Margaery patted her husband's arm sympathetically, and stepped dutifully away from him.

"Your Grace," Lord Tywin said coolly, and Joffrey turned his annoyed gaze to his grandfather, not even bothering to show his ire.

"My lord," Joffrey said, motioning for him to speak about whatever it was he planned to, Joffrey clearly thinking it was beneath his interest.

Lord Tywin turned to Margaery, gave her what might have been considered a stiff bow in only the loosest of terms, before turning back to his grandson.

"There is something we need to discuss," he said, and Joffrey crossed his arms over his chest, lower lip jutting out in what was clearly about to become a pout.

"Oh? Am I to be allowed in on whatever it is, then?" he demanded, and Margaery let out a huff of laughter before remembering herself.

Tywin did not look nearly as amused. She wondered if he had asked his son, before sending him to fight the Greyjoys, who had placed him on the roster to guard the King's bedchambers, that night.

"I understand that Queen Margaery's visit to the Sparrows was not...helpful," he said, not looking at Margaery at all while she spoke, and Margaery suppressed the urge to tell him off for it.

For a fleeting moment, she felt a stab of pity for Cersei, having such a father. No doubt it explained much about her current...state.

Not that Margaery's own father was much different in at least his views about the making of decisions, in families, for all that he didn't realize how his own women plotted circles about him.

Joffrey sniffed, clearly annoyed. It took Margaery a moment to remember why, to remember that he'd raged about sending his Kingsguard out to butcher them all, only to be reminded, rather unsubtly, by his Hand that he could not do so.

Oh, Tywin had dressed it up in the reason of keeping the peace amongst the smallfolk whom they, after all, ruled, but Margaery knew as well as anyone that Lord Tywin was not the sort to leave any insubordination unpunished.

"Yes. And those abominations would know my thoughts on the matter if you would let me-" Joffrey broke off suddenly, glancing at Margaery, and she let out a little humming sound, face impassive.

Tywin glanced between them, and Margaery was frustrated that she was no closer to reading his emotionless face now than she had been when she first met him after the Battle of Blackwater, but she thought that might have been amusement, there and gone in an instant.

"Be that as it may," Tywin went on, "An example will be made of them. They cannot simply allow one of their own to attack the Queen without due retribution."

"An example was made," Margaery said sweetly, ignoring the flash of irritation on the face of the Lord of Casterly Rock. He may have thought himself a genius worthy of every respect from a child and a woman, but it had taken Margaery pushing the matter in his face before he had acknowledged the wrongs Sansa had suffered.

And that was unforgivable.

Frankly, she was surprised he had not asked her to leave the room, while he discussed with his son. Perhaps he hated Joffrey’s company as much as she.

"My brother killed the boy in question,” Margaery continued. “The Sparrows themselves have no designs against the Crown, I do not think. I found them to be a peaceful and charity-minded people."

"Before one of their own attempted to kill you, Your Grace," Tywin said, features tightening.

Margaery looked away, felt Joffrey squeeze her hand and glanced at her husband in what was almost alarm, until she tempered it to a relieved smile.

"The Sparrows will be dealt with," Lord Tywin repeated, and Margaery wondered if perhaps his narrowed eyes did not miss everything which happened beneath his roof, the way he was looking between the two of them. And then, he held out a piece of parchment to Joffrey. "You will read this at the tourney."

Joffrey's nose scrunched up at the order. "What is it?" he demanded, making no effort to open the thing while Margaery's fingers itched to do so herself.

Lord Tywin's jaw twitched. "An answer to their heretic ways. Evidently, these Sparrows marched into one of Baelish's brothels and dragged the High Septon out into the streets in shame." He shot Margaery a look. "But if the King still believes they have no design against the authority of their betters, he may choose not to read it."

Joffrey opened the parchment then, grinning despite his earlier ire with Tywin, and Margaery admitted to the privacy of her own mind, where this old lion would never hear it, that perhaps Lord Tywin was the genius he thought himself after all.

"Anyone seen receiving charities from the heretic group known as the Sparrows will be arrested in the name of the Faith and the Crown. The Sparrows themselves are ordered to disperse or face judgment from the Crown," Joffrey prattled off, before he frowned at what was clearly the end of the missive. "That's it?" he demanded, lifting his head.

Lord Tywin raised a brow. "Would you add something, Your Grace?"

"They nearly killed my wife!" he screeched, and Margaery allowed herself a small flinch at the sound, for Joffrey was paying her no mind. "They made a mockery of your stupid High Septon. They ought to be slaughtered, all of them."

"Hmm," Lord Tywin said, starting to pace then. "And when you have sent your guards out to slaughter these men, and the smallfolk riot, what will you do then?"

"I'll slaughter them, too!" Joffrey snapped.

Lord Tywin shook his head, looking faintly insulted that such a creature belonged to his lineage.

"And start yet another war, like you did when you cut off Ned Stark's head. No, Your Grace, I think that will be enough dramatics to last us all quite some time. These Sparrows will be ordered to disperse, and when they do not, we will see how long they retain the love of the people when they are no longer providing them with food."

Joffrey pouted. "And if they don't?"

Lord Tywin glanced at Margaery. "Then circumstances will be readdressed,” he said, and Joffrey looked like he hoped that would be the case.

Chapter Text

"Marg..." Sansa rasped, arching her back as Margaery's fingers dipped between the cheeks of her arse, her thumbs drawing gentle circles into Sansa's flanks.

And then her fingers moved, down between Sansa's thighs until they scraped delicately against the lips of Sansa's womanhood.

Sansa bit her lip so hard she thought she tasted blood along with the saliva gathering on the insides of her mouth, closed her eyes and reveled in the sensations as Margaery's fingers brushed against Sansa's lips once more, before pushing inside of her womanhood.

Sansa gasped again, squirmed in arousal as Margaery's fingers curled gently inside of her, teeth scraping small circles over her lip in time with Margaery's fingers inside of her.

And then Margaery's fingers pushed further, into that spot they had discovered earlier, and Sansa gasped, unable to hold back the sound as a rush of arousal hit her, as she spilled into Margaery's awaiting hand unthinkingly.

When the world once more returned to focus, though Sansa's breaths still came in faint gasps, she found Margaery laying on her side on the bed beside Sansa, smiling wistfully down at her while she plaited her own hair.

Sansa swallowed hard, wondered if the hazy glow that surrounded Margaery after each time she had made Sansa come would ever leave her.

And then Margaery noticed Sansa's eyes on her, smiled softly as her hands brushed aside the sheer shift that came down to just her waist and dipped between her own thighs, brushing against her cunny tantalizingly.

Sansa swallowed hard, watched as the other girl fingered herself, the movements slow and sure. Sansa licked her lips.

She had touched Margaery like that, had watched Margaery touch her like that. But there was something erotic and mystifying about watching Margaery touch herself in the same manner, without Sansa's help.

Margaery glanced up, noticed that she had Sansa's attention, pushed her fingers in and out, fucking herself on her fingers, and Sansa bit back the gasp that wanted to spill forth from her lips.

She darted forward, kissing Margaery's opened mouth impulsively, enjoying the way Margaery's breath whooshed into her own, the other girl clearly surprised.

For a moment, Sansa felt Margaery's hand, where the arm brushed against Sansa's leg, still, before her moments became hurried, and Sansa almost felt Margaery's phantom fingers inside of herself as Margaery came with a quiet cry.

Sansa glanced down, looked at Margaery's fingers, covered in their sex, found herself wanting to lick those fingers clean even if she had not enjoyed the taste, before.

Margaery bent down, licking a stripe down Sansa's throat before the other girl could act on the impulse.

"Gods, if I have to stand between Lord Tywin and Joffrey one more time, I might just let them at each other," Margaery said, laughing lightly as her teeth grazed the outer shell of Sansa's ear.

Sansa gasped. "I understand now why the thought of Lord Tywin so put you off the one time I mentioned it," she reprimanded, and heard Margaery's tittering laugh above her, felt the girl's mouth move down to suck at the back of Sansa's neck.

"Margaery," she said suddenly, a horrifying thought occurring to her. "Am I boring you?"

Above her, Margaery paused, glanced down at Sansa with a stricken impression, before bending down to kiss her cheek.

"My apologies, darling. Never," she murmured, and Sansa let out a little moan, smiled up at the other girl as she grabbed at the apex between Margaery's shoulder and neck, pulled her lips down to meet Sansa's.

When they both pulled away, gasping, Sansa murmured, "Forgiven."

Always forgiven. Sansa had realized that recently, realized how difficult she found it to hold a grudge against this woman for anything, even if she knew she should.

"Your Grace," Lady Elinor called loudly from the outer chamber of Margaery's rooms, where Sansa remembered seeing her sitting down to sew earlier, however embarrassing knowing that had been, and Margaery and Sansa froze simultaneously where they lay entwined on the bed.

And then, a very familiar voice. "Is my wife here?"

Sansa closed her eyes, readied herself for the inevitable punishment when Joffrey walked in and found his wife having sex with Sansa Stark.

Sansa had always wondered when Joffrey would lose his patience and finally kill her, his grandfather's plans for her be damned.

"Seven," Margaery gasped, pushing Sansa out of the bed so quickly that the younger girl nearly overbalanced and fell to the floor. She glanced at Margaery incredulously, but Margaery did not have time to explain herself, merely grabbing Sansa by the arm and dragging her forward.

From behind them, Sansa could hear Elinor's rather high voice, explaining that the Queen had taken a nap this afternoon but she could readily wake her, if the King demanded it.

"Marg-"

Margaery hushed her with an open mouthed kiss, and Sansa was too startled to realize she was being bodily maneuvered until she found herself pushed into one of the opulent wardrobes kept in the Queen's chambers.

Margaery gave her a hurried, "Don't make a sound," and slammed the little doors to the wardrobe rather harshly, an ominous click coming a moment later and leaving Sansa in complete darkness, pressed in on all sides by Margaery's gowns.

"Margaery?" she whispered, before biting off the words, remembering the girl's admonishment to keep quiet.

Just in time, Sansa thought, for a moment later, Joffrey was sweeping into the Queen's bedchambers, telling Elinor, "I can do that myself."

Sansa heard hurried footsteps, and then Margaery's voice, sounding just as calm as if she had not a concern in the world.

"My love," she murmured, and Sansa heard the soft patter of her footsteps before a quiet oof from Joffrey.

"My queen," Joffrey sounded as if he were positively preening, and Sansa wondered if Margaery had gone into his arms, had kissed him immediately upon seeing him, Sansa's juices still on her lips.

"What are you doing here?" Margaery asked, her tone perhaps a bit too forced, for there was a long pause before Joffrey reacted, tone full of affront.

"And why should I not visit my wife in her chambers?" he asked, and Margaery let out what Sansa imagined could have been a forced laugh. Wished she knew for sure.

"Of course. Only...you usually prefer not to visit me in my chambers," she said, and Joffrey sniffed.

"My lord grandfather refuses to allow me to do anything there, always having one of my own damn dogs watching me," he muttered resentfully. "Here, your brother has the good sense to wait outside, when his king wishes to see the Queen."

Margaery giggled. "Is that an invitation to what it sounds like, my love?"

Joffrey made a sound that Sansa felt was somewhere between a growl and a hiss, and then all she could hear was the shuffle of clothes, the thump of them hitting the floor, the sound of Margaery's giggle once more.

Sansa pushed further into the wardrobe into which Margaery had so unceremoniously dumped her, reached up to cover her ears a moment later, when the sound of Margaery's exaggerated moans filled the air, the sound of Joffrey's grunts following a moment later, followed by a rhythmic slapping of skin against skin.

The wardrobe was much smaller on the inside, Sansa thought, than it seemed from the outside, and she pushed against the clothes holding her so tightly in place, finding it difficult to breathe.

"You're so brave, my love," Margaery gasped out, and Sansa heard a quiet thump that she thought might have been the both of them hitting the bed, "Coming here, where Lord Tywin cannot touch us, to have me."

If Joffrey caught the double meaning of her words, as Sansa did, stifling a chuckle despite her circumstances, it did not show in his own voice.

"Of course I am. Hand of the King or not, no man will keep me from my wife," Joffrey grunted, and then they didn't say anything for a while, and Sansa grimaced, for while they said nothing, the sounds of their activities were rather too loud for her ears.

Sansa winced, listened to the soft thumping noises with chagrin, knowing that Margaery had had no other choice but to hide her here without risking exposure, but still resenting that she was forced to listen to it, anyway.

The bed squeaked. Sansa buried her face in the suddenly very warm clothes surrounding her.

"I cannot wait until Lord Tywin realizes how foolish he is being, with his edicts," Margaery gasped out, still clearly panting though, from the sound of things, their activities were clearly done.

A moment later, Joffrey hummed. "He'll beg for my forgiveness when he realizes how he has angered his king," he agreed, and Sansa snorted.

A stillness seemed to enter the air, and Sansa went still with it, reaching up to cover her mouth with both hands and closing her eyes tightly, never mind that she could see nothing with them open anyway.

"My lady?" Joffrey questioned, tone dangerous.

There was a pause, and then Sansa's snort turned into Margaery's tittering laugh, the same one she had used moments before when the two of them had been in bed together.

It sounded hollow, now. Perhaps it had sounded hollow then, Sansa thought horribly.

"It is just..." Margaery giggled again. "I cannot wait to see that."

After a moment, during which Sansa couldn't imagine Joffrey believing his wife, Joffrey laughed, as well.

"Indeed. Perhaps I will let you watch, when he comes to me on bended knee. Just after I deliver Stannis Baratheon's head on a stick in a victorious battle."

There was a pause, and then the sounds of wet kissing, and Sansa grimaced.

"I will cherish the very day, my love. My brave lion," she murmured, voice cloyingly sweet, and Sansa closed her eyes, felt bile rising at the back of her throat.

"Hmm," Joffrey murmured. "Perhaps I will bring Stannis' head to you first, as a trophy. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Margaery hummed happily. "I would," she admitted. "We could hang it on the outer wall, where you keep all of your other trophies. Then none would dare question your authority, as king."

Sansa thought about the book in Margaery's chambers, the one that questioned that authority, the one Prince Oberyn was looking for, even if Sansa did not know what he would do with it.

The blood rushed in her ears, and in the next moment that she could hear, Sansa listened to Margaery confess her undying love for her "lion."

Sansa gagged, the nausea in her stomach filling her all of the way to her throat as she tried not to think of how Margaery had whispered some of those very same words to her minutes earlier.

Chapter Text

"The Queen requires your presence in the gardens," the Tyrell guard who arrived in Tyrion's chambers just after the noon meal informed her, and Sansa bit back a smile as she jumped up, setting aside her needlework and avoiding Shae's rapidly growing more concerned eyes as Sansa scurried to the wardrobe at the edge of the room and reached for a shawl.

The other woman knew of Lord Tyrion's request that Sansa no longer speak with Margaery quite so much, knew that Sansa was determined not to heed her husband in this, but, while she had not openly said anything about her own feelings on the matter, Sansa had felt her disapproval since that day, as Sansa had continued to do as she wished.

Sansa forced herself to swallow down bile and pretend it didn't taste like guilt as she slipped out of the pair of slippers she wore around Tyrion's chambers and into a waiting pair of shoes by the door. They were small now, too small, and pinched around her toes, but they were her best walking shoes these days, a gift from when she had still been Joffrey's lady and he had still considered her worthy of such gifts.

She wasn't guilty. The Imp had no right to dictate whom she might spend her time with, after all, when his family had killed her parents, killed her brother.

"My lady," Shae said behind her, and Sansa bit back a sigh, turned and forced herself to smile to the other woman.

"Yes, Shae?" She wondered if the other woman could sense how pinched her expression was.

"Might I come with you?" Shae asked, her tone careful, worried, and Sansa took a deep breath, reminded herself that Shae really did care about her, had shown that emotion countless times. She did not deserve Sansa's ire.

"Shae..." she thought frantically for an appropriate answer that would give her and Margaery relative peace, finally found one. "I don't think Queen Margaery would like that. She...usually likes to be alone, for walks in the gardens."

Because she wanted to be able to kiss Sansa with the rush of knowing that anyone could see them, out in the gardens, but wouldn't.

Shae frowned, and Sansa flushed as she realized how that might be misconstrued, what Shae's mind had no doubt turned to.

"You...you could walk a distance behind us," Sansa said, with a defeated little sigh, and then felt enormously guilty when she saw the sheer relief on the older woman's face, as she dropped her sewing and moved to Sansa's side almost instantly.

The guilt did not leave until they had made their way to where Margaery was waiting in the gardens, flanked by one of her Kingsguard, but smiling brightly enough, nothing like the expression that had been on her face when she had pulled Sansa out of her closet while Joffrey dozed in her bed and shooed the other girl silently from her room.

The thought made Sansa's own smile dim, a bit.

"Lady Shae," Margaery said, greeting her first, and Sansa suppressed the strange surge of jealousy she felt at that. It vanished quickly enough with Margaery's next words, however. "I wonder if you might keep my Kingsguard company while Lady Sansa and I explore the new path I just found?"

Shae gave Sansa a knowing look, and then stepped toward Ser Boros. "Of course, Your Grace," she said dutifully, curtseying to her queen and watching with narrowed eyes as Margaery held out her arm to Sansa and Sansa took it.

Ser Boros glanced at Shae as if he found her to be a rather annoying pebble in his shoe, but did not protest as she held out her arm for him to take, and Sansa and Margaery hurried on ahead of them, Margaery poking Sansa and giggling at the expression on her Kingsguard's face, and Sansa attempting to find the amusement in it that Margaery seemed to.

They did not get far down this new path, though they did turn a corner to where they could no longer quite be seen by their two guards, before Sansa felt her arm squeezed, looked up to find Margaery winking at her.

"I have you all to myself now," Margaery said, with a little laugh as she threw an arm around Sansa's shoulders, pulling her further into the gardens, down this strange path that Sansa couldn't help but think didn't look new at all.

"Hopefully with no distractions, this time," Sansa teased, watching as the light glinted perfectly off of Margaery's hair, her silky white, sheer gown. She looked radiant.

"Oh, Sansa," Margaery tucked a piece of Sansa's hair behind her ears. "I am sorry about that. And the time that my ladies interrupted us before we could...get back to what we had been doing before."

Sansa tucked her hands behind her back. "It's all right," she promised the other girl, even if it wasn't, even if Sansa hated the thought that she could only have Margaery at Joffrey's beck and call.

Hated the thought that Joffrey touched Margaery in the same way that Sansa did.

"You always make it up to me," she murmured, and Margaery's eyes gleamed promisingly before she dipped down, parting Sansa's legs and moving between them in one move.

Sansa gasped, glancing around and grabbing the other girl by the hair, yanking her back up to her feet.

"Seven, Margaery, someone might have seen you," she hissed out, glancing over her shoulder to the other end of the gardens where they had left Shae behind with a member of the Kingsguard only to see that the other woman wasn't even looking in their direction, and Margaery chuckled.

"I only dropped my pin," she said innocently, picking up the golden lion pin that had been just a moment before attached to the shoulder of her gown.

Sansa snorted eloquently. "You are impossible," she told the other girl.

Margaery grinned. "I know that it was...quite terrifying, when Joffrey almost discovered us."

The smile vanished on Sansa's features. "More than that," she whispered. "I thought we truly were doomed."

Margaery sighed, reached out and squeezed Sansa's hand once more. "Oh, Sansa." She bit her lip. "I suppose now is hardly the time to confess that I found it...rather exciting?"

Sansa gaped at the other girl. "Exciting?" she repeated incredulously.

Margaery's smirk fell. "Sorry. I...That was tasteless."

Sansa slanted a look toward the other girl. "Yes. Still, though..." she giggled, thinking of her time in the wardrobe, listening to Margaery butter up the boy when she knew that Sansa was listening in.

She no longer felt resentment toward the other girl, as she had on that day. If she thought back to those words she had heard Margaery saying to Joffrey, she knew that the cadence in them, the exaggeration of the words themselves, told her all she needed to know about Margaery's feelings for her husband.

And Sansa had already resolved not to envy Joffrey for anything involving Margaery save the band around her finger.

And, with that thought in mind, what had happened had been rather amusing, even if it had involved a terrifying amount of adrenaline at the prospect of being caught for what they hadn't been trying hard enough to hide.

With that thought in mind, Sansa turned back to Margaery.

"It did teach us something important, though," she told the other girl. "We need to be more careful."

Margaery sighed. "I...I know," she murmured, a sadness dipping into her voice that Sansa had never heard there before. "I couldn't bear if something happened because of what we're doing. We'll just have to...be more careful. Lord Tywin obviously will not be able to keep his grandson at bay for long, already is failing at that."

Sansa nodded, shivering a little despite the cold, not wanting to give up what they had in the name of caution at all. They fell into a silence that, for the first time that Sansa could remember in a long time, was uncomfortable.

Margaery always had something to say.

"Are you excited for the tournament?" Margaery asked her suddenly, sounding just as at a loss as she, and Sansa blinked at the other girl, shrugged.

"I hear it is to be something quite magnificent," she said, instead of answering, which she had no doubt Margaery noticed. "Lord Tywin has borrowed even more money from the Iron Bank to pay for it."

Margaery shrugged. "Most of that money was from House Tyrell," she said, with an amused glint in her eye.

Ah.

"This tournament," Sansa said, "What is the real reason for it?" she asked, and Margaery shrugged.

"How should I know?" she murmured, sounding rather bitter. "It's not as if I am allowed to the meetings of the Small Council without my husband."

Sansa swallowed, knowing that was partially her own fault, even if Margaery would not see it that way. If not for Sansa's being caught in Joffrey's chambers, after all, Lord Tywin would not have implicated such restrictions on his grandson.

Margaery caught the guilt in her expression even when Sansa said nothing, however, turning and taking both of Sansa's hands in her own.

"I didn't mean it like that," Margaery said, voice quiet. "I'm glad that Lord Tywin figured out what was going on before anything could go further. The fate that Joffrey wanted for you is not something I would wish upon anyone."

Sansa blinked at her, the vehemence in Margaery's voice surprising her a little. While she of course agreed with the sentiment, Margaery spoke as if there was something even more personal in the thought than what any other young woman might have felt.

As if...

"Margaery," Sansa said, watched as the other girl turned away abruptly, leading Sansa by the hand further into the gardens. "Does Joffrey..."

Margaery spun back to her, eyes too wide for the reaction to have been a natural one. "No, no. Oh, Sansa, you needn't worry about such things between Joffrey and I. Remember, Lord Tywin won't even let us..."

Sansa snorted. "I remember," she said. As if she was likely to forget.

Margaery's amused smile was rather too wide. "Then you know there is nothing to worry about," she reminded the other girl, and Sansa's eyes narrowed even as she nodded and smiled, thought of her time spent in that wardrobe as she had listened to the two of them...

Margaery hadn’t meant it, not really, Sansa reminded herself. Of course she hadn’t.

"Right," Sansa agreed pleasantly. "I'm glad."

Chapter Text

"More bread, my lady?" Sansa's lord husband inquired, holding out the bread basket with an almost desperate expression.

Behind him, Shae was watching Sansa intently, and Sansa bit back a sigh as she took a loaf, smiled at her husband in thanks as she placed it on her own plate.

And then they lapsed into the same uncomfortable silence they had been indulging in for far too long now, and Sansa found the bread dry almost to the point of choking when she placed it in her mouth.

Things had been strained between Sansa and Tyrion ever since he had told her he wished she would spend less time with Queen Margaery, and Sansa had told him she had no intention of following this advice.

She knew such a thing was wrong, as a wife, for it was her duty to obey her husband, and yet, Sansa found that the thought of giving Margaery up, after everything else she had been steadily forced to give up since her arrival in King's Landing, was something she physically could not do.

She thought it might kill her, even if she knew that explaining such a thing to Lord Tyrion could either get her killed or would only make him frown like he was realizing his little wife was much younger than he'd thought.

But she knew that the tension between them was bothering Shae, caught between two people whom Sansa was only just beginning to understand she cared about, and Sansa had no wish to alienate the other woman, as well.

Besides Margaery, Shae was perhaps Sansa's only friend in King's Landing, and Sansa was loathe to lose either one of them.

"My lord?" Sansa murmured, and hated the way her voice came out in a squeak, the instant sympathy her lord turned upon her.

She hated seeing his sympathy, these days. It made her feel as if she were made of glass.

"Yes, my lady?" he asked, tone quieter even than hers, and somehow, that only made Sansa feel worse.

"I..." she took a deep breath. "I would like to apologize. For the words I said to you the other day."

Her husband seemed to instantly understand the source of her discomfort; he swallowed, glanced between her and Shae awkwardly.

Shae stood to her feet and left the room, no doubt to give them the privacy this conversation deserved. Sansa was rather grateful for that.

"I...That is, Lady Sansa, I understand that-" Tyrion began, the moment Shae was gone, but Sansa interrupted him.

"I know that my actions of late have been disrespectful," Sansa said carefully, "And I know that your words that day were said out of...worry for me."

Tyrion looked at her in something like surprise. "I...Yes. I...I truly didn't mean to cause you offense," he said finally, and Sansa nodded, for she had already known this, of course, even if she didn't want to admit it.

"But I also know that Margaery is a friend to me, that she is not using me," Sansa went on, and when Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, she started to rush out the rest of what she would say, before he could stop it. "I know you have no reason to believe that, my lord, but I ask that, as your lady wife, you trust me, as I will defer to your judgment in all other matters."

Tyrion sighed, reached up to pinch at his nose. "Can you not see that it is because you are my lady wife that I feel this concern for you?" he asked her, his tone almost desperate.

Sansa swallowed hard, looked away. "I can. You were kind to me before," she whispered, and Tyrion sucked in a breath, moved forward until he was on his knees before her.

"Sansa..." he whispered, his voice so broken that Sansa could not bring herself to meet his eyes, lowered her own to his knees where they scuffed against the carpet. "I promised you that I would not touch you again, did I not? And I have not. And I will not."

Sansa shifted uncomfortably, opened her mouth to speak, but her husband continued before she could.

"I did not tell you to be wary of Queen Margaery because I wish to make you unhappy, or because I am angry that you do not spend more time with me, my lady," Tyrion told her gently. "I did it because House Tyrell is one of the most powerful Houses in the Realm at the moment, and they befriended you before because they wished to steal the North, as well. I worry about what cause they might have to befriend you now."

Sansa almost snapped that they wouldn't have been stealing the North when married Sansa, but she supposed that would be rather petty, considering the open concern in her husband's expression, and considering that he raised several good points in his words.

"I understand that," she said quietly, "And I promise to be on my guard, but House Tyrell has not befriended me this time, has made no move to. Margaery has, and she did it, I think, because she is just as alone and miserable as I am, here."

"Just as Prince Oberyn has?" Tyrion asked with a touch of bitterness in his tone, and Sansa flinched so violently her husband pulled back, nearly overbalancing and falling back onto the rug beneath his weight.

"I..." She swallowed hard. "My lord..."

"I know now that his intentions toward you are not amorous, Sansa," Tyrion interrupted her, voice short. "Just as I know he has no plots to seduce your young body, as I once feared."

Sansa's face flamed at her husband's words, but it appeared that he was not quite done.

"But I do know that he has some hold on you...just as you do on him."

Sansa's head jerked up. "My lord?"

Her husband gave her a grim smile. "I would be careful of what you say around him, my lady. I have seen the way he hangs on every word, hoping for a hook."

Sansa flushed. "I don't know what you're referring to, Lord Husband, as I told you once already."

Her husband's eyes narrowed. "Sansa," he said gently, and, despite herself, Sansa lifted her head.

"I know that I am the son of the enemy," he told her, voice slightly pinched, "And that I am therefore an enemy myself, but you have admitted yourself that I care for you. That you know I am trying to help you." He paused. "Whatever scheme Oberyn Martell has dragged you into, can you honestly say the same about him?"

Sansa opened her mouth, closed it. "You think that there is some scheme between us?"

Her husband groaned. "Just...If you will not keep your distance from him, then, at the very least, promise me you will tell me if you...If you feel there is reason to fear for your safety, my lady, in his presence." He grimaced. "At least, more than usual."

Sansa took a deep breath. "I promise," she lied, for she was beginning to fear that her removal from King's Landing was going to give her every reason to fear for her safety.

Chapter Text

"I can't believe the Lannisters are letting you do this," Sansa murmured, glancing at herself in the mirror as Margaery helped her pin back the tall neckline of the gown that had been commissioned for her to wear to the tournament.

Golden, paper thin material that hugged her form in the style of the Reach, but for all that signified she was the wife of a Lannister as much as anything, and Sansa lamented that she could not wear the dark colors of House Stark which she had always found so bland, but it was better than wearing another one of her faded, too small gowns.

And it was a beautiful gown. The seamstresses in town had been elated at the prospect of making a gown for the Lady Lannister at Margaery's bidding, and Sansa knew that it was only because Margaery's purse had funded the gown that Lord Tywin had allowed it.

Still, it was a beautiful gown, and it felt nice to be wearing something new and shiny as this.

Margaery shrugged, seeming to give the hem up for good and stepping back, glancing at Sansa's reflection in the mirror and seeming to like what she saw; she licked her lips and placed her hands teasingly on Sansa's shoulders, rubbing at them.

"I happen to think that you would look beautiful in Tyrell green," Margaery commented, and Sansa's face fell, Cersei's half-remembered taunts coming to mind, then.

"Do you?" she asked coolly, and Margaery must have noticed the sudden change in her demeanor, for her hands on Sansa's shoulders tightened.

"Sansa," Margaery said presently, voice pained, and Sansa glanced up at her in the mirror, saw the confliction there, "I originally befriended you because you were the last Stark of Winterfell, and because my family wanted control of the North. It's all anyone craves in this dangerous game; power."

Sansa flinched.

"But, Sansa, you must believe that it wasn't all that, later. I..." she bit her pretty pink lip. "I came to care very greatly for you, even before the wedding. You are quite like a sister to me."

Sansa raised a brow. "A sister?" she repeated incredulously, turning to face the other woman. "Really?"

Margaery's lips quirked into a small, teasing smile.

"Well, perhaps not quite a sister." She leaned forward, licking Sansa's lips with her tongue. "Hmm. You don't taste like lemon cakes. I have grown to rather expect it. More like...want."

Sansa blushed prettily, and Margaery smirked as she pulled away. "You're so beautiful when you do that," she said, which, of course, only caused Sansa to blush all the more. "I love finding new ways to make you do it."

Sansa swallowed. "Margaery-"

"Sometimes," Margaery said conversationally, as she reached out and brushed at the fabric around Sansa's waistline, "I find myself thinking about it at the most inconvenient times."

Sansa's breath hitched as Margaery fingered her womanhood through the thin gown.

"I'll be hunting with Joffrey and suddenly I'll see you, gasping in front of me, blushing like such a beautiful maiden."

Her fingers pressed deeper into Sansa's skin, the fabric dipping around them, and Sansa gasped, in much the way Margaery no doubt imagined in the forest.

Margaery's smirk turned wicked then, her other hand reaching out to tug up Sansa's skirt, and now Sansa knew that the flush on her cheeks had moved its way down her neck.

"Marg...Margaery, someone might come..."

Margaery's fingers pressed into Sansa's cunt, massaging her dripping folds with the precision of one who had done so many times, and Sansa's words cut off with a low groan as she felt Margaery's fingers brush up inside of her.

"I'm rather counting on it, darling," she heard Margaery whisper in her ear, before her fingers curled, and Sansa's gasp turned into a cry of surprise, her body jerking forward into Margaery's, her mind going hazy and stupid.

"Margaery..." she whispered, but seemed unable to say anything more than that one word, like a prayer to the gods who had forsaken her so long ago.

Margaery kissed her way along Sansa's neck as her fingers worked, lips sucking a small trail of bruises down to Sansa's collarbone.

The stray thought hit Sansa, that she would need a higher collarbone, when this was over, lest anyone see the evidence of Margaery's affections.

And then she was hardly able to think of anything for a while, as Margaery pushed her back against the wall and sank to her knees before her, spread Sansa's legs apart with a gentle hand even as her fingers pushed further.

"Marg..." Sansa's knees were going weak; she doubted she would be able to stand for much longer, and yet, Margaery held her firm.

"I've got you," she murmured, before she pulled her fingers from Sansa's cunt.

Sansa let out a moan of displeasure that turned into something else completely as she watched Margaery lick her fingers clean, then smirk up at her. Sansa groaned.

"Would you like a taste?" Margaery whispered, her voice hoarse, and Sansa blinked at her.

"I..."

Margaery held up her hands, and Sansa stared at her own juices on them, blinked again and then opened her mouth when, with a smile, Margaery directed her to.

It was strange, tasting herself, and not just because the taste was bitter and warm in her mouth, but because she was licking it off of Margaery's fingers and seeing the effect it was having on Margaery in the spark of lust in the other girl's eyes.

That thought had her wrapping her lips around Margaery's fingers, and she felt her cunt growing wet at the moan that Margaery let out as Sansa licked the other girl's fingers clean.

Before she could protest, Margaery was on her knees again, had bent her head, was was gripping Sansa's hips in a bruising hold, licking a stray line along Sansa's cunt. Margaery glanced up at her with an impish expression before doing it again.

Sansa's legs shook and she reached behind her, clasped at the mirror they had been standing in front of mere moments before.

Margaery seemed to take that as a positive sign, and Sansa could feel her lips parting as they wrapped around Sansa's dripping folds, her tongue dipping between them to lap at Sansa's arousal, pushing further into Sansa than Margaery had gone before.

Sansa let out a small shout, and then reached up both hands to cover her mouth, glancing over Margaery's shoulder in worry, but no one came to see what the noise had been about.

She sagged in relief, but then Margaery was licking at her again, one hand reaching up to massage Sansa's left breast in her palm while the other moved behind her, gripped one of Sansa's naked buttocks to pull her closer.

Sansa whimpered, her body jutting forward on its own accord, pushing Margaery's tongue further into her warm core until Margaery gagged and pulled out a little, let out a sound of frustration and scissored her tongue in and out of Sansa's pulsing cunt.

"Marg..." she whimpered, her eyes starting to water with the exertion of holding herself off, because she wanted this moment to last forever, even if she knew she could hardly last much longer. "Please..."

Margaery didn't respond, merely licked her again, and the last sensation Sansa felt before she was seeing stars was an overwhelming pleasure, spreading out from Margaery's tongue and filling her whole body, making her limbs feel like wax and the rest of her go completely numb.

Just before she might have fallen on top of Margaery, her hands scrambled for purchase, one gripping the edge of the mirror while the other gripped Margaery's bare shoulder, hard enough to bruise.

Margaery seemed to understand the warning, pulling out to glance at Sansa in amusement before lowering her head once more, delivering a brutal nip at her folds that had Sansa shouting before she could remember why she shouldn't.

"Margaery!" Sansa cried out, and Margaery moved before she could quite finish the cry, capturing her lips in a deep kiss that stole the rest of her breath. She sagged forward, her knees giving out beneath her, and Margaery caught her, wrapping both arms around her and pulling her into a warm embrace on the floor of Margaery's fitting room.

Sansa's limbs were trembling, and she sagged against the embrace, closed her eyes and shivered like a newborn foal, leaned her forehead against Margaery's and wondered how Margaery could make it look so easy, could recover so quickly from such wonder.

Margaery chuckled lowly, almost as if she knew what Sansa was thinking, reaching between their legs to scoop up some of Sansa's fluids and bring them to her lips, licking at them with the same adoration she had reserved for Sansa's womanhood.

"Margaery..." Sansa murmured, wondered if she was reprimanding or adulating. Her mind still felt fuzzy, as if she no longer quite belonged to her body and was experiencing all of this from afar, as she had felt the last few times that they had done this.

"You're so beautiful like this," Margaery whispered, tracing the veins of Sansa's throat as she panted, her body wilting against the other girl. "I could see you like this every day and it wouldn't be enough to sate me."

Sansa sucked in a ragged breath, then another. She didn't quite know how to respond to that, didn't quite know what to respond with whenever Margaery made such sweeping statements.

When she could breathe again, she thought of something else.

"What...what about you?" Sansa managed, and Margaery smirked at her.

"No need to worry about that," she told the other girl, and Sansa's eyes widened as she glanced down Margaery's body, from her heaving breasts to the wetness staining her gown between her legs.

“I think you might have to wear Tyrell green to the tournament, after all,” Margaery said impishly, and Sansa bit back a laugh.

“You’re going to make us late,” she teased.

Margaery shook her head. “The Queen is never late, Sansa, darling.”

Chapter Text

The tournament was quite the grand affair for something so hastily thrown together, and though the realm was at war, Sansa was rather surprised by the number of knights who had shown up to fight in it.

All of the Houses which were loyal to House Lannister and House Tyrell, at least, had managed to scrape together a few knights to send to King's Landing, and the Dornishmen who had arrived with Prince Oberyn, as well as Prince Oberyn himself, were also participating.

Sansa could not help but wonder at that, for all of the realm knew that Lord Tywin had prepared this tourney in the hopes of finding more members for the Kingsguard, and would have to have been out of his wits to name Prince Oberyn, but she supposed the man could already know that and simply be here for the melee.

A part of her wondered what it was like, as Arya once had and as Sansa had often scorned her for, to be a boy and be able to fight with them, to be rid of some of the anger and fear pressing down on her chest with a few punches and swings of the sword.

For the first time, the prospect was appealing, even if Sansa knew she would never be one to swing a sword.

"Nothing like a good tourney to watch good, old-fashioned violence when there's a war on," her lord husband grumbled beside her, reaching for his ever-full bottle of wine, Dornish red, she believed, and Sansa glanced sideways at him.

He raised a brow, took a sip of the stuff straight from the bottle, despite Shae's disapproving look, where she stood just behind and to the side of them.

Sansa sighed, turning away from her husband once more to glance toward the ring, where the contestants had lined up before the King and Queen on their horses, swords at the ready.

From what Tyrion had told her, it was to be swords, then lances, then a feast for the victor, and whomever had been crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Sansa's eyes moved of their own accord to Margaery, where she sat next to the King, wearing Lannister red silks as soft as milk, and a gold leaflet crown in her elaborate hair. She clapped her hands with all of the excitement of a young woman who knew no violence as the contestants were named, as her husband wished that they would honor their King with their fighting.

The King and Queen were sitting in a raised podium that was some distance from Sansa and Tyrion's own seats, and she supposed that was because of what had occurred the last time they had sat near the King rather than because Tywin was so ashamed of his son.

Still, it meant that Sansa was not close enough to catch Margaery's eye during the melee, and she distracted herself by intertwining and releasing her fingers.

The contestants moved then, and Sansa found herself growing rather bored of the fighting almost as soon as it had begun, unlike the first time she had observed a tourney, sitting here next to Lord Baelish rather than Lord Tyrion.

Perhaps she was not meant for fighting swords, at all. It was terribly dull, watching the clash of steel and knowing that it was not meant to harm, only for honor.

Honor. Like in one of the songs.

She found herself laughing before she could contain the noise, ignored Tyrion and Shae's questioning looks. There was nothing amusing about it, after all, she reminded herself, and the laughter disappeared almost as quickly as it had begun.

In an effort to distract herself, after watching Ser Daemon Sand taken down by Ser Loras Tyrell, Sansa turned to Tyrion.

"Where is Lady Cersei?" she asked idly, and watched as Tyrion arched a brow and glanced at her.

"She...decided that it would be best for her to remain in Highgarden," he said, after a moment's hesitation, and Sansa took that to mean, out here in the open where anyone could hear, that Lord Tywin had not deemed it pertinent for the wife of a cripple to come and watch the tourney, when everyone knew that Lord Willas hardly left Highgarden on account of his injury.

She was almost darkly amused, at the indignation Cersei had no doubt felt, when she had learned of that.

Or perhaps, Sansa thought, as she watched a knight tossed into the sand, blood spurting from a wound in his thigh, Lord Willas simply didn't want to witness such things, and stayed locked away in his home as an escape from all of it. Sansa knew that, had she the choice, she would do the same.

"And thus begins another war between houses," her husband muttered suddenly beside her, and Sansa glanced at him in confusion, rather embarrassed that she had not been paying attention to the tournament in some time.

He pointed to the two newest combatants; Ser Loras Tyrell and Prince Oberyn, and, at her confused look, elaborated, "The Martells and the Tyrells have hated each other since long before Prince Oberyn crippled Willas Tyrell in a tourney very much like this one, Sansa. All the Tyrells will need is a match to ignite the fire, and then I doubt that even their new alliance with the Crown will stop them from getting their revenge."

Sansa paled. She had known, of course, that Willas was crippled; Margaery had explained it to her early on in the marriage negotiations, when the Tyrells had still been plotting to marry Sansa to Willas, because she thought it might worry Sansa but, rather than disgust her, she had been relieved by the news.

Relieved that her future husband would not be able to chase her into the marriage bed if she did not want it, as indeed she had feared the Imp would do when it became decided that she would marry him, instead.

She hummed. "The Tyrells and Martells are not at war," she pointed out, and Tyrion snorted.

"Barely, and held together only by their alliances with the Crown. Their two Houses are terribly fickle though, and Lord Mace and his shrew of a mother have never forgiven Oberyn Martell for crippling the Heir of Highgarden. If Oberyn Martell downs that boy here, it may just push them over. And everyone knows Oberyn Martell is itching for a fight."

Sansa stiffened, watched as Ser Loras climbed upon his horse and his helm fell into place, as he rode out onto the green with Margaery's favor upon his lance where she had bestowed it earlier, during his fight with Ser Boros.

It fluttered awkwardly in the light breeze, a green and yellow ribbon Sansa had seen Margaery wearing in her hair earlier.

Every member of the Kingsguard had asked their Queen's favor before fighting today, with the intention of naming her the Queen of Love and Beauty, and Margaery had bestowed her favor upon all of them in turn, but something about the way she had given it to Loras seemed different than the others.

As if she were almost hesitant to do so.

"Can't something be done about it?" Sansa asked, for she knew little of fighting styles, but rather thought Oberyn might win simply on experience alone. She knew that he was experienced with a spear in ways that Loras was not, didn't know if that would help his situation or hurt it, here.

Tyrion sighed. "If something was going to be done about it, my lord father would have done so earlier. No doubt he means this as some sort of message, though I don't know to whom."

Sansa glanced back at Margaery, saw that the girl's mouth had gone white around the edges where she sat in the King's box, left hand squeezing Joffrey's as it had been throughout the tournament.

Sansa wondered if Margaery's knuckles were white as well. Wondered why she looked so concerned; while more war between the Houses was certainly not good, Margaery's reaction seemed worse than that, somehow.

Oberyn looked grim as his helm fell into place, didn't even wink at Ellaria as Sansa was somehow expecting him to, as the two horses moved down the ring from one another before turning, breaking out into a gallop at the same moment.

The first clash was straightforward enough. Prince Oberyn and Loras' lances moved at the same time, and Loras' clipped Prince Oberyn on the arm.

He wasn't wearing armor as Ser Loras was, for all that Prince Oberyn was wearing a helm as he was meant to. It seemed that, even here in King's Landing, the Dornish Prince would adhere to his standards of wearing only Dornish leather. The lance caught him in the upper arm, just below the armpit, and he let out a grunt of pain that Sansa somehow heard, from where she was sitting.

She grimaced, wondered what it was about men that so encouraged them to endanger their lives, before Oberyn shrugged the injured shoulder in a clear sign that he wished to keep going.

The next round was different, and Sansa was on the edge of her seat, watching with worry as every part of Ser Loras' body language radiated anger, even if Sansa found herself wondering why, what with the way he had won the last round.

He did not win this one. Prince Oberyn's lance caught Ser Loras in the side, and Sansa watched in horror as the young Kingsguard let out a loud shout of anger, turning his horse around and trotting her to the end of the line, before bringing her back into the melee too early.

Margaery's lips were pinched into a tight, angry line, Sansa saw, and she swallowed hard.

Prince Oberyn's steed seemed hesitant, as if it knew that its rider was no longer eager for this fight, and Sansa watched as the two horses collided together again, as the lance Ser Loras was holding hit Prince Oberyn again.

And again.

It was not until what Sansa thought might have been the fifth round of this tense fight or the tenth, that Sansa realized Prince Oberyn was allowing it. Was letting Ser Loras come at him, letting him attack.

And it was only making Ser Loras angrier, for he knew it.

The next attack, Sansa saw that Ser Loras' hands around the lance were shaking, that the lance might have gone directly into Prince Oberyn's helm if, at the last moment, Prince Oberyn had not swept his lance out in an upward arc, slamming it into Ser Loras' side with such strength that the younger man fell from his horse, his lance splitting against the rail keeping their horses apart.

The tourney seemed to come to a breathless halt.

"Loras!" Margaery cried, surging to her feet as her brother fell into the mud, his horse bucking its hind legs into the air in the confusion, before plodding on aimlessly toward the end of the track.

Elinor reached out and took her hand then, or Sansa was quite sure Margaery would have jumped down from the banister where she sat and run to her brother despite who was looking on.

As if she had forgotten how the scent of weakness so attracted her husband.

Prince Oberyn jumped down from his horse, moving to help Ser Loras to his feet, but Ser Loras stumbled away from the other man as soon as he was standing, throwing off his helm and favoring Prince Oberyn with such a snarl that Sansa flinched back in her seat.

These Tyrells are only Lannisters with flowers, she remembered Ser Dantos telling her, before he had disappeared after the wedding, and the words had never felt more real before this moment, as she stared at Ser Loras' expression and thought only of Ser Jaime Lannister.

Or, perhaps, of her Imp, or at least, what she had imagined him to be before they had been wed and he had started to prove her wrong.

Prince Oberyn had pulled off his own helm at this point, and the expression on his face wasn't angry, as Ser Loras' was. Rather, it seemed filled with pity, and Sansa could not bring herself to understand it.

And then Ser Loras was stalking off of the track, disappearing even as one of the Tyrell squires caught his horse and calmed it, and Margaery sat back down in her seat, favoring her husband with a reassuring smile.

Sansa did not pay much attention to the rest of the tourney, barely noticed when it was Prince Oberyn who placed the Crown of Love and Beauty upon Margaery's head, or the brittle smile Margaery favored the other man with, in his victory.

She could only find herself watching the Tyrells; Mace's furious expression, the boredom on Olenna Tyrell's face that no doubt hid her own anger.

Perhaps her husband had been right, and another war between the Houses was fast upon them. Sansa would not doubt it, with the expressions on the faces of the Martells and the Tyrells, though she could not, selfishly, help wondering what it would mean. For her.

And, when the tourney ended, Sansa merely watched idly as Joffrey stood to his feet and clapped, once, then twice, gaining the attention of everyone there.

"It pleases the Crown to name Ser Daemon Sand, and Lancel Lannister to the Kingsguard," Joffrey announced, glancing at his lord grandfather once more before doing so.

Sansa lifted a brow. She did not think Lancel had even fought in the tourney, so was rather confused as to why he was being named to the Kingsguard now, and everyone else present seemed to share in her confusion, including Lancel himself.

Everyone, that was, save for Lord Tywin, who looked rather smug as Joffrey sat back down beside his queen, frowning as he took Margaery's hand and kissed it.

Lancel had gone rather pale. Mace Tyrell, half-standing from where he sat below the King and Queen, looking even more thunderous at the exclusion of any Tyrells being named, when a Dornishman was.

Ser Daemon Sand was the first to step forward, after a cautionary look in the direction of Prince Oberyn, bowing before his King and swearing his protection, with sword and life, if need be.

Lancel was next, his words somewhat shakier, and Sansa might have found the whole thing pitiful, if she could not get the thought of Lancel Lannister standing before the throne, laughing as she was stripped and beaten after he announced her brother's victories to the King.

"Damn you," Sansa's lord husband muttered under his breath, and Sansa glanced at him in bemusement, watched as his eyes nearly bore into his father's.

"He means this to force Jaime to leave the Kingsguard," he whispered to her, leaning close. "By eliminating every other heir to Casterly Rock until Jaime is forced to take it to save the family from pure embarrassment."

Sansa didn't much care whether Jaime Lannister took Casterly Rock or not, but she could understand why Tyrion might, and so she affected a look of sympathy, and privately wondered if the Rock was so cursed, that no one wanted it.

She wondered for a moment, though, at Tyrion's wording. He seemed to be implying that he would also never inherit Casterly Rock, and, while she knew of the Hand of the Kong's hatred for his youngest son, she wondered if he would be so petty as to disinherit Tyrion in order to force Jaime into the position he wanted him in. Wondered if it even mattered, with Jaime Lannister leagues away from King's Landing and a member of the Kingsguard anyway.

She certainly thought Jaime Lannister was welcome to it, for, if she was ever forced to carry Tyrion Lannister's children, she would not see their legacy at the Lannister Rock.

And privately wondered who was more stubborn, Ser Jaime or his father, to see who might bend first, in such a battle of wills.

Given the way Joffrey now sat straight as an arrow and meek as a whipped young pup as he reached for the next scroll Tywin Lannister had prepared for him to read at this tourney, she would bet on the latter.

Chapter Text

"Loras," Margaery called, reaching out for her brother as she entered his chambers after the tourney, but Loras shrugged off her touch, his expression thunderous as he allowed the Tyrell maester to see to his wounds.

Hardly more than superficial wounds, Margaery knew, which would heal given time, but she still flinched to see them, to remember that the last of her brothers to fight Oberyn Martell had been Willas, whose wounds had been far more extensive.

Loras must have known the direction her thoughts had turned to, for he glanced up, sighing as he reached out and squeezed her arm.

"I'm fine, Margy," he told her, and then glanced at the maester. "Yes?"

The maester sighed. "He will be, Your Grace. Those ribs merely need to heal now that they have been set, and that bandage on his side must be cleaned twice a day," he assured the queen, and Margaery nodded, trying to look pleased.

"Then I wonder, maester, if you might permit my brother and I some time alone then, since his injuries are not fatal," Margaery said sweetly, and the maester glanced between them before bowing to his queen and hurrying from the room.

Loras watched him go and let out a little put upon sigh, before reaching out and pulling at the bindings the man had placed his arm in.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded, the moment the door had swung shut and they were alone.

"What was what?" he asked, glancing up at her in confusion.

Margaery shook her head, tired of these games played at court of a sudden; for all that she usually reveled in them.

"You nearly got yourself killed," she snapped. "I did not arrange it for you to fight Oberyn Martell in that tourney only to lose you, as well."

Her brother stared at her dully. "I didn't," he said finally, voice far too sullen for her tastes, considering the subject matter. “Nearly get myself killed. I was handling it just fine before he cheated.”

“He cheated to save your worthless hide,” Margaery snapped at her brother. “And I’m very grateful he did.”

"You were the one who said I should fight him!" Loras snapped. "You were the one who said I ought to get rid of the anger coiling up in me somehow!"

"Because I didn't think you were stupid enough to try to get him to kill you!" Margaery snapped right back at him, a spot of red flaring up her neck.

Loras snorted. "I see."

Margaery's eyes narrowed and she pulled back from her brother in the next moment, staring at him. "You see what?" she demanded, eyes filling with ire.

"What happened to all that matters is us?" Loras repeated her words, voice mocking, now.

Margaery spun on him. "Do you think I am not angry?" she demanded, voice low lest anyone overhear them. "You may have lost your Renly, but I am stuck with mine!"

Loras stared at her, eyes wide. "Margaery..."

She shook her head, not finished yet, and not able to stop herself now that the words were spilling out of her.

"Do you think that because I am his meek, happy little wife that I cannot feel fury?" she demanded hotly. "I know that you have lost your Renly, and my heart breaks for you a little more each day that I see you destroy yourself in his name, but you made me a promise when you joined the Kingsguard, brother, to always protect me. And how are you to do that if you throw yourself before each sword you find?"

Loras jerked, actually stumbled back a few steps as if struck, his face going hot and then paling as his eyes widened in a way that Margaery very much didn't like.

She felt the anger in her body abruptly drain from her at the sight of her brother's face, at his defensive stance. She knew that the blame he felt since that day had saved her family's interests, as her grandmother had counseled her that it would. That he would not touch Joffrey Baratheon so long as he felt he could not even protect his own sister.

But Margaery could not force her brother to live another moment in the hell he had fallen into since that day.

"It wasn't your fault, Loras," Margaery said, running her fingers through his hair as he tucked his face away in her lap. "What happened to me that day."

He went abruptly stiff, turning his head until their eyes met. "It was my fault," he said dully, and she shook her head, but Loras did not allow her to speak. "I shouldn't have left you alone for an instant."

"Loras..."

He sat up. "You are the Queen of Westeros, Margaery, and you should never be left alone. I don't care how good you are at talking yourself out of bad situations. I should have been there, and instead I was fucking Olyvar-"

Margaery shook her head. "You couldn't have known that a Kingsguard was going to attack me."

He snorted. "I can't even keep you safe from a godsdamned child. You should have just told Joffrey that I wasn't doing my job that day. He would have forced me out of the Kingsguard like he did Ser Barristan the Bold."

Margaery rolled her eyes. "Or he might have killed you," she pointed out, before realizing what she had said and wincing.

Loras gazed up at her, smiled thinly.

"Do you think it doesn't kill me, every time I leave you alone with a Kingsguard who isn't me? Because it was a Kingsguard who attacked you, Margy. Or every time I 'take a walk' while you are trying to spare the modesty of the Stark girl, and leave you unprotected..." he trailed off, looked away. "I can't stand it, Marg."

She swallowed. "Loras, I..." took a deep breath. "I know that we have all said that you must protect me, and that is why you joined the Kingsguard, but..." she glanced up at him, swallowing once more. "My life is not worth your own," she said bluntly. And, when Loras opened his mouth to speak, she raised a hand, silencing him. "No. I don't want you to throw your life away, protecting me, whether that means running in front of a blade for me, or slowly killing yourself with your guilt. Do you understand me?"

Loras looked at her for a long moment, and then sighed, sinking back onto his bed as Margaery sat down beside him, reached out to touch his arm.

"Do you know," Margaery said suddenly, "the day when Renly came and took you away to Storm's End to be his squire, I ran to Grandmother and cried about it for hours?"

Loras stiffened. "You never told me that," he said finally.

She shook her head. "Of course not. When you came back, you were so happy with Renly that I didn't dare mention how much I'd even missed you."

Loras winced. "I..."

"I didn't finish," she told him, and her brother gave her an indulgent smile.

"Of course."

"Grandmother picked me up, when I was done, looked me in the eyes, and told me in that voice of hers, the one she reserves for those she thinks particularly foolish-"

"I know the one," Loras interrupted, grinning.

Margaery smiled, rather certain that he did. "That there was no use crying about something after the deed was done. That I was better off talking a man out of doing the deed beforehand." She swallowed. "I couldn't talk Ser Osmund out of it."

Loras stiffened, eyes going wide in alarm.

"That was the one day my words failed me," Margaery continued. "He was Cersei's pet, and he wasn't going to disappoint her. I don't know what she had over him, if she had anything over him." She shook her head. "And I'd never felt so powerless."

"Gods, Margaery, did he actually..." her brother trailed off, staring at her in horror, and Margaery realized abruptly what her brother had almost comprehended in her words, backtracked quickly before he could make the conclusion he most certainly would have to go to his grave without.

Her grandmother had once warned her that if they were to go through with this marriage to King Joffrey, and it seemed that they had no other choice, given Mace's ambitions, her brother was far more likely to become a Kingslayer than Jaime Lannister had ever been. That one foul word against the little beast Margaery was to invite into her bed would set him off.

She wanted her brother to let go of the guilt he felt, but she didn't want him to suddenly decide to kill every Lannister he came across.

"No," she lied in a quiet murmur, not too quickly or too slowly, lest her perceptive brother grow suspicious, "Of course not. But what did happen..." she looked away, allowed just enough pain into her expression. "It was horrible enough."

Her brother nodded, jaw set tightly.

"You can't be with me every single hour, Loras," Margaery said gently. "We both know that. But...I won't send you away again. And I do hope you'll use your discretion, where Sansa is involved."

He swallowed hard, nodded. “I will,” he promised, and she believed him, remembered all of the discretion she had used with him and Renly before the need for an heir had prompted her to action.

"About Sansa," Loras said, almost conversationally then, and Margaery groaned, but he was not to be dissuaded. "Have you done anything about what I told you?"

She sighed. "I've been working on it," she promised. "I wanted...I wish she would have told me herself, because now that I know it, I can see the weight it has been, hanging around her shoulders all of this time. And...it hurts, that she has said nothing." She took a deep breath. "But I know what I have to do, now that you have told me." She glanced up at her brother. "Prince Oberyn has no idea that Olyvar told you?"

Loras shook his head. "Of course not. I would not believe his words if he did. Olyvar merely...overheard the conversation, between Ellaria Sand and Prince Oberyn, while they thought he was dozing after..." he flushed, and she wondered how her sweet brother could still find such things worthy of blushing over.

She certainly didn't, and she did not think she had quite the level of experience that her brother did.

She wondered if fucking someone who worked for Littlefinger was similar to fucking a woman married to another man. It was the sort of thing she would never be able to figure out, of course.

"I see," Margaery murmured, and then drew closer to her brother. "Thank you," she murmured, and his eyes met hers, confusion lacing them. "For telling me."

He swallowed. "Margaery...what are you planning to do, with the information Olyvar gave us?"

She forced herself to smile. "We shall see," she promised, because, in this moment, she knew that his guess was as good as hers, and Loras groaned.

Chapter Text

After the excitement of the tourney had come to an end, Sansa found herself left alone for the most part. It seemed that her husband was going to 'have a word' with Lord Tywin over Lancel's promotion to the Kingsguard, something he didn't think Sansa should be present for, he'd said, as if she had any desire to be present for such a thing.

She may have felt some guilt that Lancel Lannister was only a boy and not much older than she, but she loathed him as much as every Lannister, save perhaps sweet Tommen and Tyrion, and he had never gone out of his way to be kind to her, as they had at the very least attempted.

Let him rot in the Kingsguard. It would be little different from the days when he had gleefully reported to Joffrey on all of the reasons why Sansa should be beaten, only now, he would be doing the beatings himself.

She somehow couldn't see that sneering, boyish face lifting a hand toward her, not like she could imagine Joffrey doing, if pushed.

But he would, she knew. Because they all did.

She swallowed, hadn't realized how much she needed Margaery until this moment, after the excitement of the tourney. She knew that Margaery had gone running after her brother, that no doubt she would be busy tending to Loras' wounds and wouldn't have time to comfort Sansa, but Sansa could feel bile rising in the back of her throat.

And she had a desperate feeling, even if she couldn't explain it, that Margaery's soft lips would push the taste from her mouth.

Shae had offered to eat a light meal with her at first, but all Sansa could think about was the way Ser Loras had been knocked from his horse, the blood that could have emerged and yet hadn't, and her stomach clenched unpleasantly.

She told Shae that she would like to go to the library again for a time, ignored the knowing look the older woman had sent her before Sansa had slipped away, for once pleased that she was not important enough to the King at the moment for someone to have an eye on her at all times.

They knew by now that she would not run, of course, knew that the smallfolk were only peaceful for Margaery, and so they let her wander as she wished.

Out of sheer stubbornness, as her stomach filled with air and nausea, Sansa found her way to the library, even if she knew it was unlikely Margaery would be there.

It was empty, of course. Everyone in King's Landing was still distracted with the excitement of the tourney, and there was meant to be a feast later tonight, to commemorate the victors and to celebrate the men raised into the Kingsguard, and Sansa knew that most would be preparing for that.

Sansa had little to prepare, of course. She supposed she might still wear the gown that Margaery had had made for the tourney, the one that Tyrion had frowned at but said nothing about when he had the chance.

She did not feel like feasting. But then, Sansa had endured many a feast that she did not wish to attend at Joffrey's whims in the last few years, and she would endure this one as well, thankfully by Tyrion's side rather than Joffrey's.

She sighed, opening the door to the library and finding it blessedly, or perhaps unfortunately, empty.

Sansa stepped inside, closed the door behind her and reflected that she was rather pleased with her newfound freedom, since she had married Tyrion. Shae may watch her like a hawk most of the time, but Sansa no longer had the Hound peering over her shoulder at every moment as she explored the Keep.

She wandered through the library idly, a part of her inanely wishing that Margaery would appear as she walked past songs that no longer held much meaning to her, now that she knew how deceitful they were.

And then she came to the place where the book had been, the one that Margaery had first found her in here reading, what felt like a lifetime ago and yet not, when Sansa had fretted over whether or not Margaery was still her friend after everything the Tyrells had done to show otherwise, while now she fretted over how Margaery felt about her as more than a friend.

Sansa supposed not as much had changed in that regard as she had thought.

The book was still not there, and Sansa thought about how she had last seen it on Margaery's shelf, confused about why it had been there, but not asking the girl.

Just like Sansa didn't ask Margaery how she truly felt about Sansa or Joffrey, and just like Sansa didn't ask Margaery how she would feel about Sansa leaving her and going to Dorne with Prince Oberyn.

She chewed on her lower lip for a long moment, staring at the place where the book had lain before, the square free of dust while dust surrounded the area around it, and she sighed, squaring her shoulders.

It had been some time since the end of the tourney, after all, and while Ser Loras had been injured by Prince Oberyn, it had not been a horrible injury, Sansa was sure, or there would have been more blood.

Watching Loras, knocked from his horse by Prince Oberyn, had forced Sansa to realize that there were enough problems in King's Landing at the moment. There was enough mystery, with the Tyrells and the Martells plotting against each other at every moment, and the King thriving in it.

It was time she put that to rest.

Sansa took a deep breath, bolstering herself, before turning and walking out of the library, headed for the Maidenvault. She knew that her resolve would vanish the moment she arrived and learned that Margaery could not be seen, that she was too busy preparing for the feast that evening, but Sansa had to try.

Had to try before she was whisked away to Dorne, or Sansa would never forgive herself.

She made it to the Maidenvault, passed Ser Loras' chambers when she found them suspiciously empty, and stopped just outside the door to Margaery's chambers, noting the little light on under the door and smiling.

"Is Loras all right?" Elinor’s light voice asked from inside the rooms, and Sansa found herself pausing outside the door to Margaery's chambers, even with her hand poised to knock.

She didn't know how she felt about Elinor Tyrell. There was something about the girl, something that made Sansa's hackles rise and made her want to lay her claim to Margaery before half the court, law be damned, and yet, she couldn't put her finger on what it was. Elinor was always more than civil to her, acting as if they were friends for all that they scarcely knew each other, and, unlike with Lady Reanna, she seemed to genuinely care for Margaery.

And still, Sansa couldn't bring herself to step into that room, after hearing Elinor's voice, anymore than she could bring herself to step away.

She knew that she should not do this. Should not sit here and eavesdrop, as she did with so many other conversations around King’s Landing, because this was Margaery, and yet. And yet, some feeling, some emotion, staid her hand.

Later, she could not say what it was. A chill down her spine, warning Sansa back, perhaps. Warning her that if she entered that room, she would not like what she saw.

Which was ridiculous, of course. She knew that. Knew that the conflicted feelings she'd had since watching Margaery with Joffrey in her bedchambers, or perhaps before that, were clouding her senses, that she needed to let them go because she knew Joffrey meant nothing to Margaery but a crown.

She heard Margaery’s long sigh. “He will be,” she murmured. Then, “I hope. I think Prince Oberyn wounded his pride more than anything.”

Elinor laughed softly. "He certainly has enough of it."

Margaery's laugh sounded fairly more bitter. "He has that." A pause. "He's been getting worse, Elinor. Ever since..." a sound that was very suspiciously like a sniffle, and Sansa inhaled sharply, not even sure why.

She couldn't remember if she had ever seen Margaery cry. Even when Margaery was vulnerable, her face twisted into one of sadness and her pretty lips pursed so beautifully, eyes shining with anger or grief, Sansa did not think she had ever heard something so un-dainty as a sniffle from her.

"Oh, Margaery..."

"I don't..." another sniffle. "I'm fine, Elinor. Really, I just. Sometimes..."

A shushing noise. "I know," Elinor was murmuring, and Sansa closed her eyes and could imagine the other girl running her fingers through Margaery's hair, comforting her in the way that Sansa had, just the once. "I know."

"You don't," Margaery rasped out, and her voice was so full of pain in that moment that Sansa jerked a little, hearing it. "You can't know, you have no idea what it was like..."

Sansa's hand laid on the door latch, ready to knock and yet not, and then she heard it. The sound she been listening for, the sound she had somehow needed to hear, from the moment the Martells had invited her to Dorne.

It was an unmistakable noise, when it came, and Sansa closed her eyes, exhaled slowly to keep herself from crying aloud and revealing herself.

She had made that noise herself, but never before pressing her lips to Margaery's, never without tasting the sweet frosted scent of flowers on the other woman's lips.

And Elinor was making that noise, now, around the sound of Margaery's tears.

"I don't," Elinor was murmuring. "I can't know, you're right. But I'm here, Margaery. I'm here, and you have all of me, you know that. I will do anything to help you. Just...let me help you."

Another one of the sounds, the soft, wet schmack of lips against skin.

You have all of me.

Sansa's hand started shaking before she had even lowered it to her side, and still, she could not bring herself to leave.

You have all of me. For a moment, Sansa allowed herself to think that this was just comfort, to a Queen who had nearly seen her brother killed, but those words would not stop ringing in her ears. Perhaps it would otherwise have been all right, but for those words. You have all of me. As if this wasn't the first time. As if Elinor had given herself to Margaery in the same way that Sansa was beginning to realize she herself had.

You have all of me.

She should go. She could not even manage stepping away from that damning sound when Margaery murmured, just loudly enough to hear, "Anyway, I can't talk to my brother anymore. I..."

Elinor's soft sigh. "Then don't talk, Your Grace," her voice was teasing despite the sigh, Sansa thought idly, and had a very clear idea of what Elinor Tyrell would like to do instead of talking with Margaery.

Have all of me.

Sansa took a step back, and then another.

"Elinor..."

Sansa ran, didn't realize she was crying until she had reached up to wipe at her face.

It had been different, somehow, Sansa thought, when she finally stilled her frantic heart and hid herself away in her room, slamming the door on Shae. Different, listening to Margaery and Joffrey together while she stood by helpless in Margaery's wardrobe, near to tears and trying to rationalize what she was hearing with her sweet queen. She had hated at the time, but she'd understood at least a little, later. Margaery was only doing her duty to her husband. Margaery didn't care for Joffrey at all, but somehow did for Sansa.

No one was forcing Margaery to kiss Elinor, to touch her like that, the way she touched Sansa. She wasn't performing some duty. It wasn't just a game she needed to play for the sake of her status, of her family. And she certainly hadn't sounded like she didn't want it.

You have all of me, Elinor had said, and Sansa had once thought that she had the rest of Margaery that didn't belong to Joffrey, but now she found herself wondering if she had any of the other woman at all, or if Margaery merely had pieces of all of them, instead.

Chapter Text

"It's a beautiful dress," Margaery said, staring from the gown inside Sansa's wardrobe back to Sansa in obvious confusion.

And well she might have, Sansa supposed, for Sansa had dragged her here without really explaining her intentions, after all.

"I'd like...I'd like you to have it," Sansa blurted out then, and Margaery's eyes shot up from the dress so quickly that Sansa immediately backtracked, "I mean...if you don't wish to..."

Margaery shook her head. "No! I mean...Why do you want me to have it?"

Sansa blushed crimson, not quite meeting Margaery's eyes as she stammered out, "I'dliketotearitoffyou."

Margaery stared at her for a long moment, and Sansa was expecting her to laugh, to smile that half-smile and say what a strange girl Sansa was, or perhaps to tell Sansa what a foolish idea she found that, but, to Sansa's surprise, a moment later Margaery began unbuttoning the front of her blouse.

"Wh-What..."

"You wanted to me wear it, didn't you?" Margaery asked her coyly, fluttering her lashes at the younger girl.

"I...I..." Sansa found her voice just as Margaery pulled at the corset binding her breasts. "Not here!"

She rushed forward, grabbing Margaery's hands and yanking them away from her gown.

Margaery laughed at the expression on Sansa's face. "Fine, fine," she chuckled, letting her hands fall to her sides, the small folds where her gown was meant to cover her breasts still hanging open evocatively.

Sansa licked her lips at the sight, remembered the sound of Elinor kissing Margaery, and turned on her heel, ignoring the small pout that marred Margaery's lips at her lack of a response.

But Margaery followed her, staring appreciatively at the gown that Sansa had slung over her arm, before grabbing Sansa by the arm and linking her own arm through Sansa's, dragging her along while ignoring her dutiful Kingsguard when they stepped out into the hall, Ser Lancel not meeting either of their eyes where he stood beside the door.

Margaery favored him with a bright smile, not at all perturbed by the newest member of the Kingsguard being assigned to her for the day.

Sansa had heard that it was some punishment, that he had made it known that he was less than pleased with the arrangement of his joining the Kingsguard, as pleased as his father Lord Kevan was, and Tywin had made sure the boy was assigned to Queen Margaery since then.

Sansa supposed that would be a rather boring assignment, for a boy like Lancel Lannister.

Margaery dragged her to the Maidenvault and then, with a calculating expression, turned to Lancel outside her door.

"Ser Lancel," she murmured, "I don't suppose it's time for the guard change? I know my brother Ser Loras is to see to me today."

Ser Lancel eyed her, and then Sansa, as if he knew already that there was something going on here that he didn't understand, but certainly didn't approve of, before jerking his head. "I have a few moments more."

Sansa crossed her arms over her chest.

Margaery smiled pleasantly. "I don't mind, Ser Lancel. I'm sure there are far more exciting things to do in the capitol for a young man like yourself than play septa to Lady Sansa and myself."

He stiffened at that. "I am doing my duty, my lady," he assured her, sounding almost nervous, and Sansa noticed the almost imperceptible way that Margaery bit the inside of her cheek. Lancel did not.

"Of course," she murmured, "but-"

"Ah, Ser Lancel," a familiar voice said, and Sansa bit her lip to keep from smiling as a far more jovial than usual Ser Loras came walking into the corridor, his Kingsguard cloak in pristine condition.

Margaery had assured Sansa that her brother Loras was fine, after the incident, more wounded pride than anything, and he certainly looked it here, walking without a wince and smiling as he threw his arm a little too tightly around Ser Lancel's shoulders.

"I'm early for my shift," he said, giving the man a little wink as Ser Lancel eyed him with something like disgust. "I know how boring it can get, babysitting my little sister."

Ser Lancel ducked under Loras' arm, moving away from him and straightening his armor a bit more. It seemed to dwarf him. "Of course. I will just go and...report to the White Tower."

Ser Loras flashed Lancel far too white teeth, and Lancel practically fled.

Loras turned back to Margaery, ignoring Sansa altogether as he gave his sister a tight nod and opened the door to her chambers for her.

Margaery eyed her brother for a moment, before giving him a small smile that he returned, and dragging Sansa into the room, shutting the door with a soft thud behind the two of them, Loras a steadfast guard outside their door.

The thought made Sansa uncomfortable, but she did not have long to think over her feelings on the matter before Margaery was on the move once.

"Seven, I thought we'd never get time alone," Margaery said with a little laugh, pulling the gown out of Sansa's grip and moving toward the center of the room, not seeming to notice the little strangled noise Sansa made as she thought of the last time she had been here, standing on the opposite side of that door, listening to Elinor-

The front of Margaery's gown fell down around her hips, exposing her tight breasts, the nipples already hardened in anticipation, and Sansa felt her thighs grow instantly wet, to know that her own idea had caused such a reaction.

She swallowed thickly as Margaery got to work on the rest of her dress, shimmying out of it and allowing it to fall to the ground in a small pool.

It only occurred to her then that Margaery was naked while she was not, but Margaery did not seem bothered by this in the slightest as she took the Dornish dress from Sansa's unresisting fingers.

Margaery gave Sansa a teasing smirk, pulling open the front of the gown and placing it over her head, fingers deft as she pushed it around her head and down onto her body, smoothing the gown out as it fell into place, clinging to her skin in places that had Margaery pulling at it with a little laugh.

Sansa's mouth went dry.

"I'm not sure this gown fits me," Margaery teased, glancing up with darkened eyes.

Sansa found her voice, somehow. "I think it's perfect," she whispered.

Although Margaery was not much bigger than her, and Sansa was in fact taller, the dress fit even more tightly on her then it would have on Sansa. And something about the skintight tan fabric that barely covered Margaery had Sansa moving her hand between her legs, rubbing at her womanhood wantonly, desperately in need of friction.

The gown barely went to the top of Margaery's thighs, concealing the hair of her womanhood, but not much else, and held her legs tightly together, the little slits on the sides riding up to her hips.

Sansa swallowed, eyes travelling upward, to where the gown clung to Margaery's waist and stomach, and finally resting on her breasts.

The bosom of the gown seemed barely able to hold in Margaery's breasts, so tight across them that Sansa noticed Margaery was beginning to breathe heavily, the strings atop the chest of the gown not even tied.

Sansa found herself wondering what Margaery would look like, were they tied, and then she was moving before she really knew what she was doing, reaching out and doing just that.

Margaery let out a little moan as Sansa pulled the strings tighter than necessary, arching forward, but Sansa stepped back, not allowing the friction and giving Margaery a stern look.

Margaery licked her lips, eyes darkening.

When the strings had been knotted, Sansa reached out, rubbing at Margaery's hardened nipples through the thin fabric of the gown until she had Margaery moaning loudly, pushing against her as Margaery's nipples peaked against Sansa's dexterous fingers.

"Do you like it?" Margaery whispered in her ear, breath kissing the shell of it, and Sansa shuddered, sucking in a breath.

"You're beautiful," she whispered, and Margaery laughed.

"You always say that," Margaery teased.

Sansa's hand ran down the fabric of the gown, until she was rubbing the cloth against Margaery's womanhood. Margaery sucked in a breath, glancing down between them once more before attacking Sansa's neck with her lips, the action filled with desperation.

"That's because it's true."

Sansa liked the affect her words and actions were having on Margaery, liked how Margaery was losing control before her, wanted it to happen more often.

"Get on the bed," she whispered, half to see if Margaery would actually do it.

Margaery seemed to have no complaints, moving to the bed wordlessly and draping herself across it, glancing back at Sansa with a mischievous look on her face.

"Are you going to tear it off me now?" she asked, smirking.

Sansa shook her head. "Not yet," she told the other girl. And then she moved onto the bed as well, crawling up beside Margaery and running her fingers through Margaery's hair.

"Well," Margaery said, her tone conversationally, "You may wish to do so soon, before I lose all sense of feeling in my body and can't feel you fucking me."

That surprised a laugh out of Sansa, even as she choked on her next breath. "What a naughty queen you are, Marg," she teased, "Perhaps I ought to punish you and leave it on all night."

Margaery groaned. "I knew that this was a bad idea."

Sansa swallowed, sat back on her heels. "Do you want to...do something else?"

She couldn't quite get the image that had been plaguing her since the day of the tourney out of her head, even if she had never seen it, for Sansa's imagination had run wild afterwards, had gone through every possible extreme for what had been happening between Margaery and Elinor. But she had no wish to make Margaery do anything she didn't wish to, even if Sansa was still angry.

Even if Sansa knew that they probably shouldn't even be doing this, with the anger balling itself up inside of Sansa's chest, a tight, red hot ball of heat that hadn't dissipated even when she had put Margaery into that dress.

Margaery glanced up at her, the teasing look in her eyes dying away to that of seriousness. "Of course not. Gods, Sansa, just fuck me already."

Sansa blushed at the obscene word, as she always did, and then whispered, "Spread your legs."

Margaery swallowed. "I think I'll rip the gown if I spread them any farther than they are already," she admitted, eyes darkening with something like desire for just that to happen.

Sansa raised a brow, and Margaery sighed with fake dramatics, spreading her legs by just a fraction, the gown riding up her hips invitingly as she did so.

Sansa licked her lips, reaching out and fingering the fabric just above Margaery's womanhood, smiling at the expression on Margaery's face. And then she ripped the fabric, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room, ripped it up to her belly, her womanhood growing wetter as she watched the Dornish gown split away from Margaery's body.

It gave surprisingly easily beneath her fingers, and she wondered at how thin it was, if the Dornish had invented it for this purpose.

That thought made her blush.

Sansa reached between her legs and fingered herself, ignoring the fetid moan that Margaery let out as she watched, the way she reached up and attempted to pull at the ties of the gown.

"Not yet," she whispered, and Margaery groaned. "I want..."

She wasn't quite sure what it was she wanted, but Sansa found her fingers moving as if they knew, running down Margaery's body in slow, even strokes that had Margaery panting and keening beneath her, Sansa matching the tones sound for sound.

Margaery threw back her head, letting out another small noise that went straight to Sansa's cunny as Margaery exposed a long swathe of pale skin, neck arching, and Sansa moved, bending down and pressing her lips against it, sucking gently.

"Sansa..."

Sansa shook her head, allowing her teeth to graze against the soft skin at the apex of Margaery's neck and collarbone, marveling in the way the other woman groaned, enjoying the quiet desperation in Margaery's own lips as they lowered to brush against Sansa's collar. Margaery pulled apart the ties of Sansa's collar with her teeth, and Sansa pinched herself to keep from crying out, with the knowledge that Loras was still outside.

And then Sansa could feel her breasts swinging free of the binds of her gown, just as her lips reached the beginning of the Dornish gown on Margaery.

Margaery didn't hesitate for a moment, pulling her neck somewhat out of Sansa's reach to grasp at Sansa's left breast with her plump lips, and Sansa let out the smallest cry, breaking her focus on leaving her mark all over Margaery's neck when Margaery's mouth enveloped one of her nipples, teeth tugging gently at it.

"Oh, gods..."

Margaery's right hand reached out, pulling at the top of Sansa's gown until it was splayed out around her waist, and Sansa shimmied out of it desperately, remembering then her feral attack of Margaery's collarbone in the next moment, hands moving to brush against the tan gown where it clung to Margaery, tight and as alluring as the other woman's skin.

Sansa's nipple had darkened beneath Margaery's tongue, and she let in a sharp intake of breath as the skin tightened around it, as Margaery sat halfway up in bed and, with her other hand, grasped at Sansa's thin waist to keep her in place.

Sansa squirmed as Margaery's tongue flicked against her breast, as it moved off suddenly to have a go at her right breast, until it was as sensitive as the first, and Sansa reminded herself that this wasn't what this was about.

She keened again, pulling Margaery off of her to push the other girl back into the sheets, ignoring the bemusement in Margaery's eyes and instead moving to lap at Margaery's chest through the thin fabric of the gown.

She glanced up, meeting Margaery's eyes and seeing the want in them.

"You're so beautiful," Sansa repeated, swallowing a little. "Gods, Margaery, I want..."

"Tell me what you want," Margaery whispered, her voice almost pleading as she bucked her hips up against Sansa.

Sansa did not need much more encouragement than that. "I want to fuck you," she murmured, running her lips over the fabric along Margaery's stomach, revelling in the long breath she sucked in. "I wish that you never had to see Joffrey again, so that I could leave marks on you, everywhere, so that everyone could know that you belong with me, could know the things that we do to each other in the dark. Gods, Marg..."

Margaery whimpered. "Then fuck me, Sansa."

Sansa's head lifted abruptly. "I...what?"

Margaery grinned at her. "You said you wanted to."

Margaery was the source of almost everything Sansa knew about the bedroom. Her septa had never told her the sort of sordid things Margaery whispered about to her in the dark.

"...What?"

Margaery groaned, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, they were full of exasperated fondness. She reached down between them, pulling the gown up over her stomach and taking Sansa's hands in her own, leading them forward until Sansa was forced to sit on Margaery's thighs or fall over on top of her.

Margaery smiled at her, spread her legs until Sansa fell between them, then reached around Sansa, wrapping her arms around Sansa's waist and tugging her forward, Sansa's gown bunching up around her hips.

Sansa's sharp intake of breath was a sound she was sure even Loras heard outside of the room as Margaery maneuvered her womanhood directly beneath Sansa's, as she bucked up against Sansa's hips without further ado.

Sansa glanced down, met Margaery's lust-filled gaze.

"Fuck me," Margaery repeated, and Sansa bit her lip, rubbed her cunny experimentally against Margaery's, shivering when the rocking motion sent a jolt straight through her that nearly had her blacking out, nearly had her erupting then and there.

She nodded, riding Margaery as she pushed them together, the sensation not quite like anything they had ever done before, the sweet, soft feel of Margaery's wet womanhood sealed against her own sensitive one, moving with it.

Sansa bit her lip and closed her eyes as Margaery's hands lifted to wrap around her breasts, to tweak at her sensitive nipples until Sansa let out a silent shout.

Margaery went stiff at the sound, panting heavily. "Sansa..." She reached between them, fingers brushing at the place where they entwined, and Sansa groaned.

"No. Not yet," Sansa repeated, and Margaery writhed a little beneath her. Sansa pushed again against Margaery, enjoyed the sounds it elicited from the other woman as they writhed together, moving as one.

Sansa had never felt closer to Margaery than she did in this moment, not even when she had her lips inside of Margaery's hot cunny, not when Margaery had her fingers inside of Sansa's.

She was beginning to see stars at the edges of her vision, and Sansa panicked, reaching down to pull at the Dornish gown where it still clung to Margaery, half in tatters, now.

Margaery's breasts swung free from the tight confines of the gown as Sansa tore the rest of it off of her, and at the same time, Sansa felt the hot spurt of Margaery's come against her hand where it had joined Margaery's, just at the same that she felt her own come dripping down in a small torrent.

She gasped at the sensation, even if she had felt it a dozen times at this point, the feel of Margaery's hot fluids staining her fingers, staining her cunny where it lay against Margaery's, and closed her eyes, throwing her head back.

When Sansa came to herself again, Margaery was still lying beneath her, staring up at Sansa with a sad, knowing expression that instantly made Sansa's stomach twist into knots.

Sansa took a look at what remained of the gown, lying in pieces on the floor, and burst into tears.

Margaery bit her lip, and then opened her arms wide, expression free of any judgment, for which Sansa was absurdly glad.

Sansa did not need more encouragement than that. She fell into Margaery's arms, curled up onto the huge bed beside the older girl and snuggled against her, head falling onto Margaery's chest as she closed her eyes.

"Sleep now, Sansa," Margaery whispered against her skin, kissing the shell of her ear. "Everything will be all right when you wake."

And Sansa believed her, of course, because Margaery would be there when she woke. Even if she wasn’t sure she should believe anything that came out of Margaery’s mouth, what with the knowledge of what she had overheard Margaery doing with Elinor.

Chapter Text

"I'm sorry," Sansa said the moment she woke up, voice thick from sleep and crying. She glanced up, saw Margaery sitting on the edge of the bed next to her, brushing out her hair with her fingers.

Sansa wondered how long she had been asleep, for Margaery was wearing a thin, purple gown that wasn't quite sheer, and the lights from the torches hanging in Margaery's chambers were dimming almost to nothing, now.

Margaery glanced back at her, and Sansa's stomach clenched at the look on her face, at the way her lips were pursed even as tear tracks dried on her beautiful face. Sansa had done that.

"I don't...I don't know what happened," Sansa whispered, fully aware that it was a lie and not at the same time.

What she had done...

She thought she might be sick with the guilt of it, with the perverse pleasure she had gotten from punishing Margaery like that, as if...As if she were Joffrey.

Sansa gagged, and that was all the warning she had before the little food that she had managed to consume last night at supper with Margaery in an attempt to convince the girl everything was fine came back up.

Margaery, to her credit, moved quickly, pulling Sansa up into a sitting position and holding her over the basin they had used to wash their feet in the night before, filled with grimy water, now.

Sansa did not know how long Margaery held her there, cleansing her stomach of anything, until the only thing still coming up was bile and far too much of it, and her head ached, a dull throbbing arising behind her eyes, by the time it was finished.

Margaery shook her head, brushing out Sansa's hair where she had rescued it behind Sansa with her fingers and rubbing gentle circles into her back. Sansa did not become aware of the soothing motion until she all but collapsed back into the bed, into Margaery's arms.

"You don't need to apologize, my love," Margaery whispered gently, another pretty lie to complete the night's worth of them. "It happens, sometimes, when things are...so intense, in the bedchamber."

Sansa shook her head, sitting up a little and blinking stupidly at Margaery. "You've...done something like that before? With...Joffrey?"

Margaery barked out a laugh. "Not with Joffrey, certainly. I think if he ever caught me crying in the bedchamber, he would never let me stop." She shivered, and so did Sansa. Sansa wondered what she would have done if Margaery had started crying while they were still going at it, as her words seemed to suggest.

"But...with others. There are some people who...crave that sort of intimacy, all the time. I knew a girl back in Highgarden..." Margaery noticed the look on Sansa's face, trailing off. "Does it truly bother you so, knowing how many people I've slept with?"

Sansa pulled away from her a little, glancing around for her own clothes and finding herself suddenly unable to meet Margaery's eyes as she thought of Elinor, kissing the other girl. "I don't know how many people you've slept with," she pointed out.

Margaery's eyes narrowed. "What is that supposed to mean?" she asked, voice still insufferably calm, for Sansa was suddenly angry and didn't want to be the only one.

Sansa suddenly wanted Margaery to be as angry as she was, to experience that black-red-hot anger deep in the pit of her gut as Sansa did now, with no way of expressing it.

"Do you even know?" Sansa demanded, rounding on Margaery. "Do you even know how many there's been, with all of your...experience?"

She said the word like a curse, and flinched at the shock that appeared on Margaery's face at the question.

"Sansa, what's brought this on?" Margaery asked, brows furrowing as a flash of pain crossed her features before she buried it deep. "I thought I made it clear to you some time ago that you were not my first, and neither was Joffrey. What..."

"I was a virgin the first time we did anything, Margaery," Sansa said blithely.

Margaery closed her eyes. "I know."

Sansa didn't think she knew, understood. "I'd only ever kissed anyone, before you."

Margaery's eyes flashed, and she pulled away from Sansa, eying her warily. "If you think I'm a whore, Sansa, just say so. Don't try to confine me in some tight gown because you think it will keep me from sleeping with anyone else."

Sansa swallowed thickly, trying to get the image of Margaery from moments or hours ago out of her head. Trying to get Margaery's words just now about what it had meant, when Sansa had not even known at the time, out of her head. "Do you?"

"Do I what?" Margaery snapped back at her.

"Do you sleep with anyone else? Besides...Joffrey, I mean."

Margaery's jaw twitched. "Sansa..."

"I heard you with your cousin Elinor," Sansa accused then, the words finally bubbling out of her just when she had thought they would never make themselves known. "I came to your chambers the other night, after the tourney, because I was worried about you, because I wanted...but you and she were... Are you growing tired of me?"

Margaery's expression softened, and she stood, turning to stand before Sansa. "Oh, Sansa..."

She reached out to touch Sansa, but Sansa flinched away, and Margaery merely let out a small sigh at the motion. She turned away from Sansa, running her hands through long, unbraided hair and gritting her teeth.

Sansa watched the older woman pace, watched as she walked up and down the length of the room, from the bed to the chaise by the other end of the room, watched the frustration bleeding out of her stance to be replaced with something else.

And then Margaery spun back to her, giving Sansa a thin, watery smile.

"Of course not," she said, as if that answer should be obvious, as if Sansa should have known that so long ago. Sansa felt another jab of guilt in her stomach, wondered if she had any more bile to release.

"Elinor and I...we've been pillow friends for years," Margaery continued, no longer looking at Sansa as she spoke, staring instead down at her shaking hands. Sansa had done that, too. "I...care for her, immensely, but I don't feel for her the same things I do for you. I never have. I don't...I can't quite describe how I feel for you, Sansa, not the way I can how I feel for her."

She sounded so lost as she said the words, and Sansa felt something like relief at hearing them, at hearing that Margaery was just as confused about all of this as Sansa was.

"Then why did you let her kiss you?" Sansa asked miserably, for her thoughts had turned to her lady mother, and she found herself wondering if this was how she had felt, every time she looked at Jon, the living reminder of her husband's infidelity.

"In my family, we were never taught to only confine ourselves to one encounter," Margaery admitted quietly, sitting down on the bed next to Sansa, but making no move to touch her, still staring down at her hands.

"As long as there were no...complications, there was no need to remain so strict." She shrugged. "I guess...I've never really known anything different. My mother and father, they love each other deeply, but even they often find themselves in the beds of others, and are happy enough with such an arrangement. I only knew that such a life is dangerous for a queen, for Joffrey's queen. I'm...sorry if it bothered you. I never meant to hurt you by it."

Sansa took a deep breath, wrapping her arms around her stomach as if to hold in what she felt there. "My mother loved my father," she whispered, thinking of all of the times she had lived in awe of her parents as a little girl, seeing perhaps more romance there, in the formal way they regarded one another, than was actually there. "And they never strayed from each other while they were wed. But I think she hated him a little, too. For Jon."

"Your half-brother," Margaery said.

Sansa nodded. "It just...isn't done, in the North. Oh, they have their bastards there, of course, and there are people like Walder Frey," she shivered at the mere mention of him, at the reminder of what he had done to her family, "But my mother always believed that it was so important to be faithful, no matter what. I suppose..." she let out a tired laugh. "I suppose she meant to be faithful only to one whom you've wed..."

She couldn't continue the thought. Couldn't think about what her mother might think of her now, knowing that she willingly shared the bed of a married woman, not when her mother's specter already haunted her enough.

Margaery's eyes flitted over to hers, before moving back to her hands once more. "And do you hate me now?" she asked, in a whisper that was so loud in the otherwise silent room.

Sansa forgot to breathe. She half-turned where she sat, pulling one leg up onto the bed so that she could face Margaery fully.

"I could never," she whispered, the words half a declaration and half a promise, and Margaery stared at her for a long moment before nodding, more to herself than Sansa, and pulling her lip between her teeth.

"If you like, I can...I can stop." Sansa stared at her for a moment, and Margaery moved, reaching out and running her fingers hesitantly along Sansa's arm. The touch caused the hairs on Sansa's arms to stand, as Margaery clarified, "With Elinor, and with anyone else."

Sansa swallowed, eyes widening. "You would do that?"

Margaery nodded, made a noise low in her throat when she saw the look in Sansa's eyes, tilted up Sansa's chin with her fingers. "Sansa...If you haven't realized it by now, there is quite a lot that I would do for you. And I...I am sorry that I hurt you. We may do things differently in Highgarden, but I know it was wrong in your eyes, here in the capitol, where things are so very different from Highgarden. I just...Elinor was there, and I was worried about my brother, and, in that moment, I had convinced myself I needed her."

"I'm sorry," Sansa whispered, tears stinging at her eyes. "I shouldn't have gotten so angry. And I shouldn't have implied that you were a..." she flushed. "I know that you don't belong to me. That you've never belonged to anyone but yourself. I just..."

Margaery's eyes flashed with hurt. "I may be Joffrey's wife and queen, Sansa, I may belong to him, but I don't care about him like I do you." She reached out, taking Sansa's hands into her own. "Surely, you must know that." She bit her lip. "I've never felt for anyone the way I do for you," Margaery continued, lips pursed as though she were forcing the words out, but Sansa felt a small thrill at hearing them all the same.

"R-Really?" Sansa stammered out, and Margaery nodded, giving her the smallest smile. Sansa bit her lip. "For what it's worth, I care about you too."

Margaery's smile widened, though, when Sansa met her eyes, she reflected that the other girl's eyes still looked quite sad. "I know, Sansa."

"And I really did want to tear you out of that dress. I'd been, ah, thinking about it for a while. Since I got it, actually."

Margaery looked startled, and then she laughed. "My little vixen," she giggled, and then leaned forward, kissing Sansa on the lips.

"Margaery..." Sansa said quietly, lifting herself up onto her elbows when they both pulled back.

Sansa gave her a small, half-smile. "I know," she whispered, and Sansa hesitated for a moment, before nodding.

"I know," Margaery repeated, "and let's never speak of it again, eh?"

Sansa swallowed. "I..." Then she nodded, not trusting herself to speak again without bursting into tears once more.

Margaery bent down, kissing Sansa's cheek.

But Sansa reached, out pushing the other woman back, and, at Margaery's perplexed expression, she whispered, needing to explain herself as she eyed the Dornish dress, now sitting in tatters on the floor beside them, "I want you to know, I..." She coughed, unable to quite say the word. "I think you're the most beautiful woman I will ever know."

Margaery stared at her for a moment, and then smiled widely. "Well, you aren't hideous yourself, my vixen," she teased with a chuckle in her voice, and Sansa forced herself to giggle as well.

And then she let the smile drop, a little. Or at least, Sansa thought it was only a little. Margaery sat up a little where she lay beside her, glancing at Sansa with a nervous tension in her shoulders.

Sansa licked her suddenly dry lips. "What if...What if I won't be your vixen forever?" she murmured. "I don't...I know that you belong to Joffrey in name only, I do, but it's only another reminder of how temporary all of this..." she swept her hand around the room to encompass everything she couldn't quite put a word to. "Is."

A part of her wasn't certain, after this display, that she would be able to let go of Margaery, when the time came.

Margaery's smile was gentle as she pulled Sansa into her, laid Sansa's head against her arm where it lay folded at the elbow on her pillow.

"Sansa," she murmured, her voice low and conspiratorial, "This can last as long or as short as we both choose it to," she promised, and something about that promise relieved Sansa more than she could say. "And it doesn't have to mean anything, or it could mean so much that it hurts, like it does now." She flicked Sansa's chin with her finger, making the other girl smile. "But you'll always be my little vixen."

Sansa swallowed, bit back a small laugh as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Margaery's once more, tried not to think about how right it felt, to have her lips against Margaery's, and how wrong Dorne suddenly seemed, in this moment.

Chapter Text

“Oberyn Martell is going to steal her away from me. I had thought it would be Tyrion Lannister, like I once suggested he do to keep her from Joffrey, but it will be a damn Martell. And I will never see her again, if he takes her to Dorne. They hate us there, and we hate them."

Margaery was moody today, in a way she hadn't been since the pregnancy she'd not even known she was going through until it was too late, and she sighed, flopping down onto the divan in the corner of her room as Loras shut the door to her chambers behind Elinor, Sansa gone for some hours now since their...interesting coitus.

Elinor reached out, rubbed at Margaery's back comfortingly. They were sitting in Margaery's rooms again, the one place she seemed to be free to speak her mind, and yet where Joffrey had already invaded with his presence, and Sansa had nearly overheard things she should never have been able to, alongside what she had been so hurt by.

Margaery had come here after another round with Sansa, more hurt than she had let on in front of the other girl, by the Dornish gown, by the fact that Sansa was angry with her for being with another woman when she planned on leaving Margaery for good anyway, by all of it.

She used to be able to break down in front of Sansa, Margaery thought idly. The girl had been one of her few saving graces here, as the wife of Joffrey, for whom breaking down in front of would be fatal.

And now, Margaery had nothing but these damned useless rooms which had never kept her safe, not even from her own guards, and Elinor, the cause of their fight to begin with, to break down before without admitting to some horrible weakness that would push away the two other people she clung to out of sheer necessity.

"I thought you wanted her safe," Elinor murmured, voice doe-soft.

Margaery sucked in a breath. "I do," she whispered carefully, and then glanced at Elinor once more. "Of course I do. I...I should," she finished, and Elinor sucked in a breath.

"You really love her, don't you?" she whispered, and Margaery jerked at the word, pulled away from Elinor's gentle hands.

“I...don’t know how I feel about her,” Margaery whispered, looking crestfallen, but Elinor seemed to see through that easily enough.

“You do,” she said intuitively. “You do, and it scares you how much you do,” she said, reaching out and squeezing Margaery’s shoulder. “And if it bothers her that much then, burdensome as it may be for me," her lips quirked into a teasing smile at those words, "I won’t steal you from her again.”

Margaery glanced up at her cousin sharply. "Elinor-"

"You can thank me for it in some other way," Elinor said, with an impish grin. "One that won't make your little...companion jealous."

Margaery smiled for a moment, before her face fell once more. "I don't know that it matters," she said finally. "If Prince Oberyn gets around to finally leaving this place with her, and Olyvar didn't know of their plans or simply wouldn't tell Loras, because we know he's only telling us this for his own gain, then I will likely never see her again."

Elinor sighed, but then she sat up a little, her eyes narrowing. "The Martells are certainly taking their time to leave.”

Margaery opened her mouth to agree, then slumped a little where she sat, falling silent.

Elinor gave her a sympathetic look. “But they will. And then you will have to decide," she said, and Margaery glanced up at her in confusion until Elinor elaborated, "You have to decide, Margaery, how much she means to you."

Margaery swallowed. "I don't know," she whispered, and then ducked her head. "You seem to, but all of my feelings of late, about Sansa Stark," she let out a small breath, "about anything, have been so...muddled." She rubbed together shaking hands.

Elinor's face twisted into sympathy. "Oh, Margaery," she murmured, and then bit her lip, expression thoughtful. "If I could go back to that day and take on what Ser Osmund did to you myself so that you did not have to bear it, I would do so in a heartbeat."

Margaery hugged herself, gaping at her friend. "Do not say such things," she whispered, not sure if the whisper was from the need to be quiet about what had happened to her, or merely at the horror of what her friend was suggesting. "Elinor, I could not live with myself if I thought that you had suffered in such a way because of..." she bit her lip. "Because of m-"

"Do not finish that sentence," Elinor snapped, moving closer to Margaery and then hesitating, her arms falling to her sides. "Don't you dare. What happened that day was not because of you, Margaery." She sighed at what she must have seen as a lack of belief on Margaery's face. "It was because Cersei Lannister is a right bitch, and could not bear to share her son with anyone else. That is all."

Margaery sucked in a breath, thought of the blood that had quite literally been on her hands weeks after that event, ignoring, for the moment, Elinor's harsh words. "I goaded her," she protested weakly, ignoring Elinor's soft hands on her shoulders, rubbing gently as always used to comfort her in the past. It didn't, now. "I kept pushing Cersei, and-"

"And that somehow makes you responsible for her actions? For Ser Osmund's?" Elinor laughed incredulously, and Margaery jerked away from her, staring. Elinor sighed. "Margaery, have you told Sansa yet about what happened that day? Loras?"

Margaery whirled. "You know I cannot tell Loras," she whispered. "I can barely keep a handle on him as it is, these days. He would be shoving his sword into Joffrey's chest the moment he learned the truth, the throne be damned, and we would never survive the ensuing bloodbath."

Elinor sighed, rubbed at her eyes. "Sansa, then?"

Margaery shook her head, and Elinor pulled close to her again, pulled Margaery into her arms.

"You should tell her," Elinor said quietly. "She might come to understand you a bit better, if you do."

Margaery snorted wetly. "And what would be the point? If she...if she is leaving soon, then it doesn't matter, anyway. In our last weeks, days, however long together, she would merely feel pity for me, would treat me like something fragile, when she is the one person who...who I can be myself around."

Elinor stiffened a little at her words, hurt flashing across her face before she buried it, and then sighed. "You shouldn't have to bear this burden alone, Margaery," she whispered hoarsely. "I cannot stand seeing you like this."

Margaery shrugged. "I have you," she pointed out, somewhat to appease her friend after what she had just said, even if it was true, to an extent.

Ever since Elinor had learned what had befallen her at Ser Osmund's hand, she had treated Margaery like a piece of fragile glass, and, while sometimes she craved that, Margaery found that, other moments, she could hardly stand it.

Elinor's smile turned sad, then. "Not forever," she reminded the queen. "You know I'm to be married soon enough. Ser Alyn won't let me put him off forever, even if I am serving the Queen. And a married lady cannot continue to serve you in the same capacity as I have."

"Everyone is leaving me," Margaery whispered, lower lip jutting out into a small pout. "You, Sansa, everyone." She crossed her arms over her chest to keep them from shaking in front of Elinor. She shook her head. "I...I suppose it's selfish of me to say that. We must all grow up, after all."

Elinor shook her head. "You'll still have Alla and Megga, and the other girls." She bit her lip, suddenly hesitant. "I could stay, if you like. The betrothal between myself and Alyn is fluid enough, after all. He cares for me deeply, and my father wants the match, but my mother is almost as conniving as you, as you well know-"

"No," Margaery murmured. "Of course not. I could never ask you to do that for me." She smiled. "I've seen the way you look at him, every time you're together. And I would not want to stand between that."

She sighed, thought of Oberyn Martell, and wondered if she looked at Sansa Stark in the same manner that Elinor looked at her betrothed.

Elinor gave her a small smile, reaching out and brushing the hair from Margaery’s eyes, and Margaery flinched back at the touch.

“In any case,” she murmured, not meeting Elinor’s eyes, “That wasn’t what I meant. What happened, with Ser Osmund. That’s not why...”

Elinor raised a brow. “It wasn’t?”

Margaery sent her a small smile. “No. I meant...ever since Joffrey called her to our chambers, and wanted me to...” she shook her head. “Ever since then, everything has been so muddled. When I’m around her, I want her so badly, and then, sometimes, I remember how this all even started between Sansa and I, between the two of us, and...”

Elinor reached out again, her movements gentle, slow as she tucked a strand of Margaery’s hair behind her ears. “There’s nothing wrong with the two of you,” she promised, finishing the thought for Margaery when the other girl could barely put a name to it, and Margaery’s breath hitched at the words. “I don’t care how this started, between the two of you. You deserve the small bit of happiness you bring each other, and not to have to sit and think about why you have it.”

Margaery laughed wetly. “Perhaps I shall have to keep you from marrying Ser Alyn for a while longer, Elinor. I’m not quite certain what I’ll be able to do without you around to give me such...straightforward advice, you fisherman’s wife.”

Elinor frowned at her. “I mean it.”

Margaery sighed. “I know. I know, I just...You said you know what this feeling is, between her and I. I still don’t, but it...doesn’t feel like anything else I’ve had.” She looked through her lashes at Elinor.

“And that scares you,” Elinor finished for her.

“How do you know?”

Elinor smirked. “Because I’ve certainly felt that before. It’s all right to feel that way, Margaery,” she told the other girl. “I know your grandmother has taught you that it isn’t your whole life, but it is. Dangerous, but all right. And...I think you know what it means, about this situation with Prince Oberyn, as well.”

Margaery stared down at the tremor in her hands. “Well, I don’t,” she murmured, and Elinor sighed, stood to her feet.

“I think we should go and have tea on the solar,” she told Margaery, wiping her own hands on her gown. Margaery gave a noncommittal grunt. “I’ll go and tell the other girls. And Sansa, how about that? She seems to enjoy these sorts of events, as long as there’s lemon cakes. And you.”

Margaery reached out to throw one of the small pillows on her bed at the other girl, didn’t make it in time before Elinor was skipping from the room.

Chapter Text

"I think you might be a better rider than I," Sansa said, panting as they brought their horses to a halt, the guards grumbling behind them as their mounts struggled to catch up to the racing mares.

They had just reached the Blackwater Rush, and Margaery could remember the last time they had come here, when House Tyrell was still courting Sansa, the deadened trees the two of them had found in this forsaken part of the Kingswood. She blanched, hoping Sansa's mind did not dredge up the same memory, for she had no wish to remind Sansa of those times when House Tyrell was merely using her.

"Nonsense," Margaery murmured dismissively, pulling her horse to a stop so that their annoyed guards might catch them. She turned to Sansa, smiling widely. "You're just out of practice."

Sansa pouted. "It's not like there's a lot of opportunity for me to ride, in King's Landing," she told the other girl, and Margaery sighed.

"I used to ride out every day in Highgarden with my ladies," Margaery confessed, expression slipping a little before she turned back to look at Sansa with a small smile. "My brother loved horses, and taught me to love them from a young age. I...I miss that."

"You could still do it, here," Sansa pointed out, but Margaery merely shrugged.

"With the smallfolk as antsy as they are, and King's Landing constantly on the verge of war?" she shook her head. "It is merely a treat now, unfortunately. Besides, someone needs to keep a hand on Joffrey."

She saw Sansa swallow thickly, and instantly regretted the words, but already Sansa was speaking.

"I suppose that is true," she agreed, and then glanced back at their guards. "Though I'm not sure this is precisely where I would wish to go for a 'treat.'"

Margaery smirked as they came closer to the Blackwater. "Perhaps I have developed a taste for the macabre, as Joffrey's queen." Or perhaps as Sansa's lover, though Margaery did not dare say that thought aloud.

Sansa's face softened. "I hardly think that's true. Your gowns are still as pink and frilly as ever."

Margaery swatted at the air where Sansa rode beside her. "You little fiend. I suppose you are right."

Sansa snorted. "I'm always."

"Your Grace," the guards interrupted them then, before Margaery could retort, surrounding them now in a tight semi circle, and Margaery turned a blinding smile on the one who had spoken. Not Loras, she noted, who was glaring at her in turn. "You should not attempt to lose your protectors in such a way," she was lectured by the green cloak. "You could be taken advantage of by the woods people, or an assassin."

Margaery frowned. "Of course. My apologies, good ser; I suppose Lady Sansa and I allowed ourselves to get carried away. It won't happen again, of course."

The man sniffed, and Margaery wondered how it was that she had more respect, as more than just a foolish young girl, from the Lannister gold cloaks and Kingsguard then her own father's men. "Of course."

Margaery kicked her heels, and her horse moved along, the Tyrell guards following them with Ser Loras as Sansa kept stride with Margaery, the two of them talking happily of nothing as they rode.

Margaery would miss this. Megga was a lovely riding companion, but she wasn't Sansa. Wouldn't be a replacement for the girl when Sansa had gone off to Dorne.

They stopped for a little picnic on the edge of a clearing of dead grass surrounded by hollowed out wood, sending the guards to watch the perimeter with their backs to the girls as Sansa set up their blanket and Margaery emptied the picnic basket the kitchens had provided for the Queen. Margaery had not wanted to cross the Blackwater Rush again, and Sansa didn't mention it.

It wasn't quite the privacy of Margaery's bedchambers, but in the open like this, Margaery knew that it was the closest they would come to, and she was content with that.

Margaery collapsed onto one edge of the blanket, noticed Sansa's eyes flitting apprehensively to the guards before she sat in the opposite corner, and sighed, moving herself so that she rested on her elbow, hair falling in Sansa's lap, their feet tangling together.

Sansa shot her a worried look, but her face softened at whatever it was she saw on Margaery's that so often reassured her, and Margaery took the opportunity to fill two small plates for the both of them while Sansa was distracted.

The food Margaery had ordered made for this little trip was all carefully bland; breads and honey cakes, lemon cakes to entice Sansa and pears, figs and dried meats that had been smoked to a delicious softness, and honeyed wine. Truth be told, she was rather proud of the assortment she'd come up with, and was rewarded for it with the small spark of interest she saw in Sansa's eyes as she looked over the meal, before dutifully taking her made up plate from Margaery's hands.

Margaery found herself watching Sansa eat like a mother might watch her child, feeling a strange, smothering feeling deep in her chest as Sansa ate far less of her own plate than Margaery did of hers.

If Sansa went to Dorne with Prince Oberyn, who would be there to tell her to eat?

The thought hit Margaery with a sudden force, and she jerked where she lay, spilling her wine onto the edge of the blanket before righting her goblet just in time. Sansa glanced down at her, radiating concern, and Margaery forced herself to smile.

It was not as if she was doing the best job of making Sansa eat herself, though Margaery knew that, between she and Shae, they were at least ensuring that Sansa had three meals a day and ate most of them. Would they do so in Dorne?

Margaery tensed when she felt a hand listing through her hair, worn long and down today despite the rigors of riding. For all that it made her look, in Elinor's words, like a banshee to wear her hair down when riding, Margaery enjoyed the feeling of the wind through her hair when she did so in Highgarden. Enjoyed it even more for the rarity it was in King's Landing.

Sansa's fingers in her hair were hesitant, pulling gently at the long strands, and Margaery forced herself not to move, not to pull away from the touch, for, even with their argument over that damned Dornish dress, Margaery was not sure they both knew where they stood together, and she did not want Sansa getting the wrong idea from a rejection of that sort.

"Do you want some more?" Margaery asked when she felt like the touch was strangling her, when she felt like Sansa's hand was pulling her hair around her throat and tugging, holding out the basket of lemon cakes her ladies had brought for this venture, and Sansa glanced at them for a moment before laughing, reaching out and taking one to set on her practically empty plate, effectively distracted.

Margaery was glad enough not to have that conversation, as badly as she knew the last one had needed to be had, for she did not know what so bothered her about the feel of Sansa's fingers through her hair, while she laid her head in Sansa's lap. Perhaps the vulnerability of it, for she did not react so when Alla brushed her hair, or when Megga plaited it.

It frustrated her, that Margaery should react in such a way at all. Elinor, her only confidante, had tentatively suggested once that it had to do with what Ser Osmund had done to her, this need to appear strong all of the time. She had not done so again, after Margaery had laid into her, convinced that it was merely the result of her worry that Joffrey should ever find his queen weak.

Whatever the case, the need was growing with each passing day. The need to display her strength, the itch she felt beneath her skin at random times prompting her to fuck Joffrey harder each time they were together, the tremors in her hands at the mention of anything reminding her of Ser Osmund pushing Margaery further into Sansa's arms.

Margaery shook her head, not wanting to focus on such thoughts for a moment longer. She sat up, taking another sip of her wine and turning to face Sansa where she sat cross legged on the blanket.

"Sansa," she said, watching with slight amusement as Sansa stuffed a second lemon cake into her mouth. The amusement faded, however, as she thought that the other girl ate an almost steady diet of the things, that on any other girl, it would show.

Sansa glanced up, flushing a little, which had not been Margaery's intention at all, and Margaery made certain to steer the conversation to other waters.

"Elinor won't be bothering you anymore," Margaery said quietly, not meeting Sansa's eyes. "I spoke with her about the matter we...discussed, and she agreed that it was for the best if she merely attended to her duties as a lady."

Sansa blinked, worked her throat for a moment, as if she had forgotten quite how to use it.

"Oh! I..."

"Sansa," Margaery reached out and took Sansa's hands into her own. "I want very much to make you happy, as I have told you. Elinor is...a dear friend of mine from my childhood, but we are no longer children anymore, and some things must change between then and now, after all."

Sansa bit her lip. "I was wrong to get so angry about it," she said finally. "You've known her a lot longer than you've known me, after all, and-"

"Sansa." Sansa lifted her head at the harsh tone in Margaery's voice, a tone Margaery had never used with the sweet girl before. "Never apologize to me for how you feel, all right? Do us both that courtesy, at the least."

Sansa met her eyes, flushing. Gods, the way that pink color bloomed across Sansa's skin...the other girl had no idea what it did to Margaery, she thought, somewhat annoyed to realize as much. "All right," she promised, and Margaery nodded, relieved.

"I'm glad that you let me know how you really felt," Margaery went on, "even if some of it hurt me." Sansa flushed, but allowed her to go on, "And I am glad that it was something I could fix."

Sansa licked her lower lip. "I shouldn't have implied that you were...that you..." she flushed again. "I shouldn't have said what I did about your bed companions, however hurt I was," she said, the words all coming out in a quiet rush that the guards would not be able to hear. "That was thoughtlessly cruel, and I didn't mean it."

Margaery sent her a small smile. "I know you didn't, Sansa," she answered gently. "I know."

She didn't mean it now, but she had meant it in the moment, hurt by what she saw as a betrayal on Margaery's part, where Margaery would never seek it out willingly. Margaery supposed she could understand the sentiment, from a distant sort of perspective; if Joffrey took a lover, she would be furious, of course.

But, as she had told Sansa, monogamy was not something that the ladies and lords of House Tyrell paid much attention to, and Sansa's anger over the whole thing bemused her. Margaery knew that her mother and father loved each other, but they did not keep the same bed after they had birthed enough heirs, and were quite happy with the arrangement.

She wondered if it was so different in the North, or if Sansa had merely been hurt by the fact that Margaery had been her first, as she had claimed.

Truth be told, Margaery still didn't understand the anger there, much as she sought to soothe it, much as she would do anything to atone for it, but it worried her, and not for the reasons Sansa might have suspected, had she known of that worry.

Sansa wasn't made stronger by their relationship together. Sansa would be made stronger by getting away from Joffrey, not remaining in his stifling presence. She wasn't like Joffrey; she was bright, and needed to shine, not to have her emotions pushed down as they always would have to be, in the capitol of her enemies.

What was that saying, Margaery mused, as she watched Sansa reach down to pick up a charred stick sitting beside their blanket and poke at the ground with it. If you love someone, let them go?

She knew what she had to do, of course. Had known from the moment Loras had told her what Olyvar had overheard. Knew the course she would take with this news.

"Sansa," Margaery said pleasantly, "Are you ready to return to the Keep, now?"

Chapter Text

"My love," Margaery said, after she and Joffrey had had sex, for she always found him more amenable then, "I wonder if there is something I might ask of you."

He glanced up at her, and she saw in his eyes that he no doubt wished her to ask for something like a crossbow or another dead peasant.

He was in a good mood from more than just the sex. Lord Tywin had let him execute some poor, damned peasant for taking food from the Sparrows, as more and more poor souls were being arrested for doing since that edict had been read at the tourney. The fool had gone to his death muttering that the Sparrows were kinder lords than the Crown had ever been.

Joffrey’d had his stomach ripped out.

The Tyrells were now once again offering food to the poor, in massive amounts, but it wasn’t enough. The smallfolk wouldn’t be bothered to stop going to the sparrows for food, at this point, even if it could mean their own deaths.

And, much as Margaery would like to ask him for some barbaric thing that would endear her to him more, she would just have to disappoint him, and hope it would be enough. After all, she knew her resolve in this matter wouldn't last for long.

"Whatever it is, my lady," he said with a little, wicked grin that boded ill, "I shall see it given to you."

She smirked. "I do not doubt it, darling, only..."

He looked at her, saw the serious expression on her face and sat up a little in the bed, the sheets pooling around his waist. "What is it?"

She sighed. "It's nothing..."

"Margaery."

She glanced up at that, for his voice had been cool, in a way she had not heard in some time, and she knew she could afford not to speak no longer.

"It is only...Oberyn Martell has been...in King's Landing for a very long time," Margaery murmured, reaching her hands up to rub at her husband's shoulders.

He nodded, tense under her touch. "His Dornish stink has certainly filled the brothels," he said, and she thought of Olyvar in those brothels and barely withheld a snort at her husband's barely veiled feelings toward...activities of that nature.

How ironic, that he seemed not to be bothered by such activities when they were done with her, so long as she reminded him why he should enjoy them, each time.

"And..." She reached out, rubbing her fingers along his chest with tantalizing slowness. "You know how my family feels about him. He crippled my brother Willas, and for nothing but sport. And now one of his has been named to the Kingsguard, and watches me at all times." She shuddered, even if Ser Daemon Sand was hardly around her and she had no particular quarrel with the man. "It makes my father worry for me."

Joffrey turned to face her, lips twitching as he reached out and cupped her cheek. "A crime if ever there was one, to mar the pretty smile on your face, if nothing else."

Margaery gave him a quiet frown, in turn, and wondered not for the first time how it was that the little bastard could play so well at courtly love. "Prince Oberyn's continued presence here has only served to make both myself and my brother Loras...uncomfortable," she continued quietly, choosing her words carefully.

Nothing to make Joffrey think her vulnerable, not for an instant, but he would certainly remember the sparring that had nearly become a bloodbath at the tourney. She had seen just how much he had enjoyed it, watching her brother get beaten into the dirt.

"And the way he parades that Dornish whore about as if she were his wife is disgusting," she added, almost as an afterthought, just as she watched Joffrey's eyes light up in memory.

Not that she particularly cared one way or another about Oberyn Martell's paramour, but she would take what she could get. She knew how Joffrey felt about things that he personally considered indecent, after all. And no doubt, he had heard about her grandmother’s tart words to Ellaria Sand in the gardens, just days after the woman’s arrival here. Words aroused more out of irritation toward the Viper than his paramour, in truth.

Joffrey snickered. "Isn't it? And to think, he's never bothered to marry her, or anyone else. Though, I suppose she is just a bastard."

Margaery nodded eagerly, thought of Sansa far and away, lounging under a Dornish sun, and felt a pang, deep within her, but it was the good kind of pain, she told herself, and tried to believe it.

She didn't need to keep Sansa close so long as Sansa was safe, after all. It was simply up to the Martells to get her there.

"And his contributions to the Small Council have been unhelpful and miniscule since his arrival, according to my lord father, who is offended by his very presence," she continued, smirking slightly as she recognized that victory was close at hand.

It was a fine line, after all, for she could not have Joffrey growing too angry with the man. That would not help, at all, for Joffrey was as like to expel him, and thus Sansa, a little faster back to Dorne as he was to chase him with an army back there.

"His people keep your sister in Dorne like a prisoner, not even allowing her to come to your wedding when you know how much I wished to meet her, while he is allowed to lounge about King's Landing, making sport of visiting all of the brothels in Flea Bottom."

Joffrey snorted. "He is...every bit the degenerate that I understand Renly Baratheon was."

She nodded again, expression full of serious disgust, pretended the reminder that Renly was "degenerate" did not bother her at all. "So I've heard as well, Your Grace. It is...quite troubling to many of my ladies, knowing such a man prowls King's Landing."

For Sansa, for Sansa, for Sansa, the litany kept running through her mind as she watched Joffrey's upper lip curl in disgust, and wondered if Joffrey's fervent hatred of 'degenerates,' as he oft called them stemmed from something deeper.

"Very well, my lady," he grinned at her. "You've made your point. It's high time more Lannisters sat on the Small Council, anyway."

That was certainly not what she wanted, for the Tyrells dominated that Small Council just now, Oberyn or no Oberyn, and to have more Lannisters would only serve for annoyance. But Margaery smiled prettily anyway, and nodded.

For Sansa.

The damn Martells were not moving quickly enough, and the longer they dallied here the longer Margaery mistrusted their willingness to help Sansa.

The longer she found herself deliberating over whether or not she could let Sansa go.

“Thank you, my love,” she murmured, pecking his cheek. “You are too kind.”

Joffrey grinned at that, at the cruel irony imbedded in those words, and then tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and gazed at her like he was picturing devouring her whole.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to go hunting, my lady?” he asked, and Margaery withheld a sigh as her husband shoved the sheets off the both of them.

Nothing came without a cost, anyway, as the Queen of Westeros knew well, now.

For Sansa, for Sansa, for Sansa.

Chapter Text

"You named Lancel to the Kingsguard," Tyrion spat out, remembering that when he was the acting Hand of the King, he hadn't forced those who wished to speak with him to make an appointment for the chance to do so. It only made him more annoyed, as he stormed his way into his father's office in the Tower. "He's just a boy. He didn't deserve that."

Tywin snorted, looking faintly amused by the anger on his youngest son's face. "And his father didn't like it anymore than you, but sacrifices must be made."

"By Jaime, you mean."

Tywin gave his son a droll look. "The last time I checked, your brother Jaime was still a part of this family, much as he likes to dress as a knight and play swords."

Tyrion clenched his teeth. "The Tyrells were practically salivating at the chance to get another one of their own into the Kingsguard. The boy didn't even fight-"

"The Tyrells have been salivating for far more than they deserve for some time," Tywin spat out, and Tyrion stared at his father.

"What have they done this time?" he asked tiredly, for he was far less fond of those petty Tyrells than his wife seemed to be, and then his father was tossing a piece of parchment in his direction.

Tyrion picked it up, didn't get the chance to read it through before his father revealed its contents.

“The Tyrells are offering their assistance to the Boltons,” Tywin Lannister shouted, and Tyrion grimaced, for he hadn’t had a hangover like the one he’d induced the night before in some time, and his father could always be counted on to make it worse.

"If the Boltons begin to believe that they do not have the support of the Crown, they will declare for Stannis," Tywin said, gritting his teeth when neither of his children spoke.

Tyrion bit the inside of his cheek. "Stannis had a firm support in House Stark. He won't accept their allegiance quickly. And House Tyrell is loyal to us, or did I miss something?"

Tywin gave his son a look as though he believed that what Tyrion had just said proved how much of a dullard Tywin had always wished he was. "Stannis Baratheon does not have the opportunity to be turning down allies, just now. And the Boltons have already proven themselves power hungry traitors. And House Tyrell is not the Crown."

The Dornish Red Prince Oberyn had sent him as a thank you in advance for his assistance in bringing down the Lannisters (by the gods!) was giving him quite the headache.

“The Tyrells expressing their sympathies to the Boltons-”

“In the form of wheat and wine and supplies that should have been sent to King’s Landing as they agreed to do,” Tywin muttered.

“-Is hardly a cause for concern about the Lannister legacy,” Tyrion said dismissively. "Winterfell, if you haven't forgotten, still belongs to us through Lady Sansa."

Tywin snorted, looked less than impressed at the lecture from his least favorite son. “Would that Cersei were still here. She may be many things, but your sister at least understands the need for preventative action.”

He peered at his sons over the top of his desk, and Tyrion felt all of seven years old again, holding up the work his maester had told him to bring to his father and waiting for approval that he would never get.

Tywin let out a hopeless sigh before snapping, “Today it was food and drink. Tomorrow, it will be part of the largest army in Westeros helping to back them against Stannis Baratheon.”

“Yes,” Tyrion said quietly, “And having the Tyrells send aid to the Boltons against a man who has challenged Joffrey’s claim to the throne time and time again will make us look weak, make us look as though we can’t send that aid ourselves.” He glanced at their father, pretended he didn’t yearn even now for the man’s approval at his realization, but Tywin merely grunted. “Which means you will want to deploy our men, first.”

“The Tyrell army will never reach Winterfell before a Lannister army does, should Stannis turn his eyes on Winterfell,” Tywin agreed, “Particularly not the one stationed in Casterly Rock.”

“But that will leave Casterly Rock open to any enemies,” Tyrion pointed out. “That could be what Stannis is hoping for.” He paused. "Or perhaps that is what the Tyrells are hoping for."

Tywin blinked at him, and the small moment of impressed surprise in the man’s face before he blinked it away and his face cleared of all emotion was not one Tyrion was likely to forget.

“Indeed.” Tywin coughed. “Then we will send soldiers from King’s Landing with Joffrey’s blessing, and make an open show of it, let the Tyrells know that sending their own troops would be ill-advised, at this moment.”

Tyrion's brow furrowed. “Mace Tyrell is an idiot, but the Queen of Thorns isn’t,” he said finally, “She wouldn’t be stupid enough to try and destroy an ally she needs if it meant gaining Stannis Baratheon the upper hand, would she?”

Tywin pursed his lips. “I think she would much rather fight a battle on one front, rather than two. But I think this was more a warning than an outright threat. She departed quickly after Joffrey started treating his queen like one of Littlefinger’s whores,” he said darkly, and Tyrion swallowed, thought of Margaery Tyrell’s insistence that he take Sansa to Casterly Rock, not so long ago.

Perhaps it had truly been out of concern. Or perhaps the girl was even smarter than he’d taken her for. Perhaps she wasn’t as good of a friend as Sansa believed her to be.

Sansa was married now, and the whole world thought their marriage consummated; she was no longer a useful tool as a bride, and if she were to be…taken out of the game entirely, if Stannis Baratheon happened to take Casterly Rock while she was in it, Winterfell would be free for anyone who could take it.

And, as his father had mentioned, the Tyrells had the largest army in Westeros.

He sighed, and thought of the Dornish wine Oberyn Martell had shared with him, wondered if there was a chance of gaining more off of the man, if he somehow managed to promise the man Gregor Clegane's head.

Then again, Oberyn Martell had overstayed his welcome in King’s Landing; the wedding was long over, and he had yet to explain his continued presence here beyond that he still had yet to have his demands met and wanted to keep his seat on the Small Council from falling into someone else’s hands if he left.

"There's something I need to tell you, Father," he said finally, and Tywin narrowed his eyes at him. "About Oberyn Martell."

He hadn’t known, not truly, what he was going to decide on the matter until this moment. Wondered if he ought to be ashamed or pleased at the thought. Glanced at his father’s face and couldn’t find the answer there.

But he knew what he had to do, even if every time he looked at Joffrey, a part of Tyrion wished someone was able to take down the little shit.

His father steepled his hands. "Is this important, Tyrion, or another concern that we are taxing the Dornish party out of a kingdom through the brothels?"

Tyrion ground his teeth. "Oberyn Martell approached me the other day, demanded Gregor Clegane's head."

Tywin waved this off imperiously. "He has nothing to negotiate with. It is of no concern presently, not with these Tyrells to deal with."

Tyrion swallowed convulsively. "He mentioned Myrcella."

Tywin lifted a brow. "Oh?" Only Tyrion's father could sound so disinterested and bemused at the same time.

"As a tool of negotiation," Tyrion elaborated, and Tywin straightened suddenly, gave Tyrion a long look.

"He threatened her?"

Tyrion shrugged. "The Dornish are very adamant that the man they believe killed Elia be turned over to them for justice."

"And you didn't think to mention this sooner?" Tywin roared, half-standing from his position behind the desk.

Tyrion didn't bother to respond, and Tywin made a face of disgust. "What is it you want for this...information, boy?" he asked, as if Tyrion were some mere informant, rather than a member of this family.

Tyrion supposed that, for the first time, he almost deserved that scorn, from his father’s eyes.

Tyrion held back a snort before answering. "I wasn't going to tell you," he said at last, "Because the Viper may be many things, but his brother is the leader of Dorne, and will allow no harm to come to Myrcella when she is second in line, according to them, to Westeros, and so I knew that Prince Oberyn really had nothing to negotiate with. But I think I may have discovered a way to refuse his request without looking as though we are, what with Joffrey’s recent demands in the Small Council."

Tywin's eyes narrowed. "Oberyn has always been half-mad," Tywin said finally. Then, "We will send Clegane with the army to treat with these Boltons, and tell Prince Oberyn that the man will only be handed over to him if he returns, and the Tyrells and Martells will both be left unsatisfied. I understand that the Tyrells wish Prince Oberyn gone from King's Landing."

Tyrion raised a brow. "You want him to stay?"

Tyrion supposed it made some sense. Oberyn was not going to get the Mountain in a fight, not while Tywin Lannister lived, and he had threatened the life of Myrcella. Having a hostage in the second born Prince of Dorne if things escalated with the Martells was a good decision, even if Tyrion doubted Prince Oberyn would make for a pleasant hostage.

Tywin gave him a long look. "Keeping Oberyn Martell in King's Landing has its advantages." Tyrion wondered if those advantages had more to do with keeping an eye on what was happening in Dorne with a Dornish hostage, or pissing off the Tyrells. Joffrey had been quite adamant, when he made the request to the Small Council and was supported by Lord Mace, that Prince Oberyn leave King’s Landing. Prince Oberyn had been more than amused, where he sat at the end of the table, listening to Tywin proclaim that Joffrey’s wish would be “taken under advisement.”

"And the next time you encounter a bit of information that could impact our family, boy,” Tywin snapped, breaking Tyrion out of his thoughts, “you will not hesitate to share it, or I'll see you carted off to the Wall, this time without the pleasure of returning from it."

Tyrion swallowed, lifting a hand to his throat. "Understood, Father."

"If I have to get rid of that Northern whore to keep you from becoming distracted when you learn of such things-"

"It won't happen again," Tyrion promised lowly.

Tywin eyed him. "It had better not, boy. You would do well to focus your attentions on your as yet barren wife. Provide me with an heir, and I will allow the two of you to retire to Casterly Rock. Clearly, remaining at court is affecting even the most basic of your wisdom."

And, for all that Tyrion had hated being shut away in Casterly Rock for most of his childhood, he almost wished he could take his father up on that offer.

Chapter Text

"Stannis and his wicked army march toward Winterfell," Joffrey told the court, which began to titter with growing horror, and Sansa swallowed where she stood in the balcony as she had been told to, looking suitably resplendent even if she felt horrible, in a gown echoing the grays of House Stark, as Lord Tywin had ordered, her face suitably blank at those words.

It didn’t feel right, to be wearing her House’s colors again; in fact, it made Sansa feel rather queasy, and she swallowed hard, not meeting anyone’s eyes, staring straight ahead and biting into the inside of her cheek so hard she was surprised it had not yet begun to bleed.

She flushed at the thought of how many people were looking at her in this moment, of how many of them were judging her, sympathizing for her when they never bothered to help her in the past.

"But our very own Lady Stark is here amongst us," Joffrey went on, sending Sansa a wicked grin that had the blank look on her face faltering for just a moment. She forced herself to look impassive once more, even if she doubted that she succeeded in the attempt.

"And we will defend what's ours," Joffrey went on, speaking in such a tone as though he expected the whole of the court to cheer for him. When no one did, he frowned at them, his attention off of Sansa once more, and Sansa breathed in relief.

"The Lannister army will depart from King's Landing to aid the Boltons against the traitor Stannis Baratheon," Joffrey told the court, and Sansa forced herself to smile at the news, as if she wanted that at all. "The Tyrells will keep us safe enough, here in the capitol, will they not?"

He glanced at his wife as he said the words, and Margaery smiled and nodded and made her pretty promises to him. Lord Mace spoke next, droning on about how honored he was that House Tyrell was so trusted by the Crown.

Sansa barely heard a word of it, her hands sweating as she forced herself to say the next words, the ones Lord Tywin had demanded she say.

“I am honored,” she began when Lord Mace stopped speaking, then saw the look that Lord Tywin was sending her way from where he stood behind the Iron Throne and raised her voice. “I am honored, Your Grace, to receive your help in defending my homeland. You have my utmost gratitude.”

Joffrey grinned.

"When they bring me Stannis Baratheon's head, I want it on a pike!" Joffrey crowed when Sansa fell back into the shadows, and Margaery laughed alongside him just as if those were the funniest words she had ever heard, and Sansa wondered what Joffrey Baratheon would look like when he died, before making as timely an exit as she could manage, hurrying down the corridors to her husband’s chambers.

The moment Sansa returned there and slammed the door behind herself, she was violently sick.

She managed to run the last few paces to the chamber pot sitting in the corner of the room, kneeling down in front of it before whatever she'd eaten for breakfast, sweet bread or cake or something that had tasted so sweet then and was so bitter now, came up.

"When they bring me Stannis Baratheon's head, I want it on a pike!"

Sansa's body wracked with - something, sobs or pained shock from the way her stomach was heaving, Sansa couldn't say. Her head was beginning to pound behind her eyes, and every time she opened them she could see spots in her vision, obscuring the miniscule amount of decorations Lord Tyrion kept on the walls of his chambers.

She vomited again into the bowl, felt her body growing warm and achy with each subsequent bout of sickness, and curled in on herself, arms wrapping protectively around her belly even if that did nothing to stem the flow.

The Lannisters were sending an army to Winterfell. Stannis Baratheon was sending an army to Winterfell.

Sansa wondered which side believed themselves more in the right. She'd heard that Robb Stark had passed her over in the succession. Joffrey had enjoyed taunting her over that fact, over the fact that the Lannisters didn't care at all about what Robb Stark wanted, either.

She sicked up into the bowl again, stared down at the vomit and pretended that the sight of it made her queasy enough to sick up again.

And then Shae was ushering Tyrion out of the room, slamming the door behind his protests and latching it tightly, before she moved to where Sansa sat on the floor, wrapping her arms around Sansa and wiping at her mouth with a wet cloth and placing another bowl in front of her, the chamber pot full.

Full, Sansa realized with horror, even if the only thing she had eaten today was a bit of sweet bread and some lemonade. The thought, rather than encouraging her to stop, only seemed to make her stomach heave more.

And then Shae was there, murmuring something in Sansa's ear that only sounded like faint ringing, and Sansa shivered at the sound, remembered the way she had dipped down to curtsey to Joffrey when she had thanked him so prettily for defending her homeland. She dipped down as she had then, dry heaving into the bowl once more.

As if she wanted a Lannister to go near Winterfell.

Shae reached out, brushing the hair out of Sansa's eyes, and Sansa flinched away at the touch, entirely too cold on what felt like burning skin.

Shae sighed, glanced down at the bowl and then asked, "Better?"

No, no she wasn't, Sansa thought, even if she managed to force her stomach to stop heaving for these few moments.

"I...The Hound offered to take me away from this place," she whispered into Shae's skirts, unable to bring herself to look at the other woman, unable to explain where the words were even coming from, why she felt the need to say them to Shae. But Shae stayed silent, just listening, and Sansa was grateful for that, for the words needed to be said now that they were here, forcing their way past her lips.

"During the Battle of Blackwater, he offered to take me away from here." She sniffed, felt the arm around her waist, Shae's arm, and Sansa hadn't even noticed it there before now, tighten.

Shae didn't speak, though, for which Sansa was absurdly grateful.

"And I told him 'no,'" she continued, hating herself a little more in that moment, feeling the bile that she had thought gone from her stomach starting to rise once more. "Because..." she shook her head, shuddering as another spasm rocked through her body, as she turned and spat more bile into the waiting bowl, not able to meet Shae's eyes when the other woman ducked to meet hers.

"Because I thought that Stannis Baratheon was going to save me," she whispered. "Because he was allied with...with Robb." She shook her head, shook out the image of Robb's head taken off to be replaced with his direwolf's, of her mother's neck, raw and open and gushing after being slit. "Because I was a stupid little girl."

Shae reached out then, pulling Sansa around to face her and giving the younger girl a hard look. "You are not," she told Sansa, through gritted teeth, and Sansa forced a smile at the look in Shae's eyes, as if she was offended on Sansa's behalf.

She didn't appreciate Shae enough, Sansa thought idly. She never had.

"I thought he would save me," Sansa went on. "I thought he was going to finally take me home. And then he lost the battle, and now he's taking my home, and my first thought, my first fear, was that after that, he would come back to King's Landing again, instead of joy that he might take it from those Lannister loving Boltons." She looked at Shae. "What am I becoming?"

She didn't feel queasy anymore, Sansa realized, just tired, bone tired in a way she hadn't felt since Tyrion had told her of her mother and Robb's deaths.

"Sansa," Shae said, voice gentle in a tone she had never used with Sansa before, "You're afraid. Someone is taking your home, and you're afraid of what will happen to you when that happens. It's all right to be afraid."

Sansa snorted. "The Boltons already took my home, after they helped the Freys kill my family, and I didn't care, then."

Shae shook her head, sighing a little as her brows furrowed in confusion and concern. "Because you were grieving your family."

Sansa swallowed hard, hated the taste in her mouth and spat into the bowl some more. "No," she said. "No, it isn't like that." She looked up at Shae. "I'm not...I'm not Sansa Stark anymore," she whispered, the revelation coming to her as she tasted blood on her tongue once more, once more felt nausea rising in her throat.

Shae reached out, placing the back of her hand to Sansa's forehead, and it took Sansa a moment to realize that she was checking for a fever. Sansa didn't flinch away from her, this time.

"I've become someone else, staying here, amongst so many lions and roses." She reached out then, gripping Shae's arms in an attempt to steady herself when Shae finally lowered her hand. "Whatever I am, it isn't a Stark anymore."

"Sansa," Shae said, glancing toward the door and then turning a full look of concern on her, "We all have to change sometime," she said finally, and Sansa blinked at her, for those were not the words she had next expected to come out of Shae's mouth. Shae sighed. "You've done what you had to to survive in this horrible place," Shae continued gently, "And it will hurt, of course it will, to realize what that person is, but you are still Sansa Stark."

She sounded like she was convincing herself more than Sansa, and Sansa wondered for the first time what it was like, to go from being a young woman from so far east who made her living whoring to a lady's maid in King's Landing. Wondered if Shae was speaking from experience.

Sansa shook her head. "No. No, I...I let myself forget, for a while, let myself be that other person, but that other person was content to let Sansa Stark die in order to live here. And..." she reached up, biting into her fist lest she vomit again. Her ribs were shaking like a rabbit's. She wanted to cry. She wanted Margaery here. She wanted to vomit again, only there wasn't anything left in her stomach.

She wanted to stop feeling so guilty.

"I don't even know which of them I want to win," she whispered out. "The Boltons, or Stannis Baratheon." She shivered. "I was so afraid then, too, during the Blackwater. When Cersei told me what would probably happen to me if the soldiers took King's Landing, when I was reminded of how the Hound had to save me during that riot in Flea Bottom. I just want to stop being afraid. I just," she took in a shuddering breath, "I just don't want to be afraid anymore."

Shae was petting her hair, the motion oddly soothing. Like her mother used to do, when Sansa was sick, back in Winterfell, when the only thing Sansa had to be afraid of was Arya playing some horrible prank on her.

She hadn't been afraid, Sansa thought. These past few months with Margaery, yes, there had been fear, fear of what Joffrey might do to her if given the chance, fear of being hurt, fear that Margaery didn't care for her the way Sansa did for Margaery, but nothing like the fear Sansa Stark had felt in all of the time she had been stuck in King's Landing before Margaery's arrival, before their relationship had become something more.

Sansa hadn't been afraid, because she was allowing herself the illusion that everything would be fine, no matter what it was. That the Dornish were going to take her away from this place, that Margaery would keep her safe from the worst of what Joffrey might do to her, that Tywin Lannister wouldn't let anyone touch her as long as she was his key to the North.

She thought of Winterfell, of a blade cutting through flesh, of a woman, holding in her stomach as her child erupted out of her, of Robb, flesh of his neck yellow beneath the blood gushing out of it.

Sansa turned back to the bowl, and tried not to hold back a sigh, tried not to think about whether it was fear or shame that had her heaving air and water into the bowl, had her flinching away when Shae reached out to rub at her back.

Chapter Text

"Margaery!" Sansa gasped out, as Margaery pulled her tongue from Sansa's throat abruptly enough that Sansa mourned the loss and pushed her back onto the bed, as Sansa nearly stumbled when her knees fell against it and she nearly fell over backwards.

Margaery sent her an impish grin, and Sansa found herself grinning back, even as Margaery maneuvered her further onto the bed, as she stripped off what remained of Sansa's clothes with expert precision, tossing them into the pile that had already gathered on the floor, and moved to lay on the bed as well, straddling Sansa's legs as Sansa moved backward on the bed, resting her head against Margaery's pillows, feeling utterly safe here in a way that she had not in some time.

Margaery didn't know about her episode, after learning that the Lannisters were marching on Winterfell to fight Stannis Baratheon. Margaery didn't know how she had lost a bit of herself, sitting there in Shae's arms, and that was wonderful.

So she supposed she ought to let Margaery have this, this moment of happiness, moment of pretense, and comforted herself in the thought that it might be the last time they ever managed it, before Prince Oberyn took her from this place.

And, a small part of her admitted, she loved the moments like these, even when she knew she ought to hate them. Loved the way they were able to steal kisses in the bedchamber like this, in between Margaery going to meet Joffrey for supper and Sansa meeting Shae for mending Tyrion's shirts, as she had promised the other woman she would not force her to do it alone when Shae had no real experience in sewing.

Loved the thought that they couldn't be touched here, even if she was still self-conscious in the knowledge that Ser Loras was standing outside the door, guarding them, or about the fact that she herself would have to sleep in this room tonight, her husband laying on the divan not so far from this bed while she did so.

Margaery bent down to kiss her, and Sansa reached up, rubbed her hands along Margaery's breasts, all thoughts of the way she was defiling her husband's chambers forgotten completely.

"No," Margaery told her, and Sansa blinked in surprise, a flash of hurt crossing her features as Margaery pushed her down into the bed, pulled Sansa's hands away from her chest as if their touch offended her.

"Margaery?" Sansa asked uncertainly.

Margaery gave her a reassuring smile as she reached out, petting down Sansa's sides. "Don't want you to move for me," Margaery told her, and Sansa blinked again. "Want you to lay right there."

Sansa licked suddenly dry lips. "All right," she rasped out, rewarded with a small smile for her efforts, and then Margaery moved, crawling down Sansa's immobile body to press a kiss to Sansa's left breast, then her right.

Sansa's nipples pricked at the sensation, and she attempted to rut up against Margaery, only to be pushed back down, Margaery's hand pressing into her breastbone, the look she sent Sansa warning.

Sansa sighed, lay still as Margaery's kisses moved down her stomach, down her waist, and Sansa squirmed, felt her womanhood growing wet at what she knew was coming.

And then Margaery lifted her head, lowered it only when she had positioned herself on Sansa's feet, her lips on Sansa's lower thighs.

"Margaery, what are you doing?" Sansa whispered, glancing at Margaery in bemusement as Margaery moved away from her cunny without giving it any attention, pushed Sansa down flat on the bed when Sansa attempted to pull her back.

Margaery moved down to Sansa's legs, pressing butterfly kisses along the smooth, vulnerable skin of her thighs before moving downward, skipping her cunny altogether, kissing her knees lovingly, and Sansa groaned.

"Please, Margaery...haven't a lot of time. Shae will be looking for me. Please, fuck me already."

Margaery ignored her, pressed another chaste, gentle kiss to Sansa's left knee before moving downward, pulling Sansa's calves into her lap and kissing them each in turn.

Sansa blinked down at her, groaning again when Margaery sucked a gentle mark into Sansa's ankle. "Margaery..."

She didn't understand this. Yes, she and Margaery had been...intimate in so many ways, since they had fallen into bed together. And, in the beginning, they had been slow, gentle, because Margaery had understood that this was what Sansa needed.

But this...This gentle, torturous thing that Margaery wished to do to her, where Sansa lay passive as Margaery licked and kissed every inch of her save the part that needed it the most...

Sansa couldn't stand it. There was something about it, something that made the emotions she felt for Margaery well up too strongly, along with other emotions, ones she didn't want to think about in the bedchamber at all.

She was going to lose Margaery, when the Martells took her. She was going to lose this, this gentle lovemaking that was slowly breaking Sansa apart as Margaery touched every piece of her, claimed it, in this moment.

She closed her eyes, and suddenly Margaery was there, attentions to Sansa's feet abandoned as she gave Sansa a gentle tap on the cheek, startling Sansa into looking up at Margaery in surprise.

"Open your eyes, Sansa," Margaery ordered her, and Sansa whimpered a little, as those stormy, lust filled eyes looked down at her.

Sansa swallowed thickly, nodded. "Yes. Yes, please, Margaery, just..."

Margaery moved down, brushing her body over Sansa's, until their bodies lined up perfectly, until Margaery slowly began to rub herself against Sansa.

Sansa forced herself to keep her eyes open, to keep them looking up into Margaery's as her whole body shuddered, as she whimpered and felt her eyes prick.

Margaery reached out, brushing the hair out of Sansa's eyes, trailing her fingers over Sansa's cheek, brushing against her lip.

Sansa opened her lips invitingly, felt a shock of disappointment when Margaery didn't take the bait, didn't let Sansa take her fingers into her mouth and suck them.

"Margaery, please," Sansa said. "Just...What are you doing? Just fuck me. Please."

But Margaery ignored her, trailing soft fingers down Sansa's neck, reaching down beneath it to pull it away from the bed, wrapped her lips around a vein and sucked so hard that Sansa almost came then and there, gasping as her vision turned almost black with the sensation.

"Margaery..."

"It's all right, Sansa," Margaery murmured, pulling away from her neck for only a moment to breathe out the words before reattaching herself. "You're doing so well for me, darling. So well."

Sansa shook her head, desperate, reaching down between her legs in an attempt to bring herself some sort of release, but Margaery only batted her hands away, gave her a stern and yet somehow gentle look.

"Can't...can't last," Sansa rasped out, not even caring how needy she sounded in that moment. "Margaery, please. Need you."

Margaery tutted, fingers reaching out to trail down to Sansa's nipples, tweaking them so hard that a burst of pleasure shot through Sansa's body, and she moaned wantonly, no longer concerned with who might be standing outside the door, listening.

"Margaery..."

Margaery returned her vigor to Sansa's neck, even as her hands continued to play with Sansa's nipples, and Sansa barely remembered how to breathe, felt over stimulated throughout her entire body, moaning and whimpering like a whore.

"You are going to last," Margaery informed her, and Sansa shook her head, desperate.

"Can't," she rasped out again, felt Margaery give her another tap, this one slightly harsher than the last.

"You will," Margaery told her, and that voice...Sansa closed her eyes, shuddered again as her body was wracked with need. "Open your eyes, Sansa." Sansa opened them, blinking as she licked her lips at the look Margaery was giving her. "You're going to last until I tell you, Sansa, or I'm going to leave you here, sitting in your own-"

"Gods, Margaery!" Sansa tried to sit up, and Margaery pushed her back down again. Sansa whimpered, pushing herself up against the hand on her chest, desperate even for that contact.

Margaery, seeming to realize this, let go of her, and Sansa sighed, flopping limply back down onto the bed.

Margaery bent down, giving Sansa's neck another long suck. "Please, darling," she said, voice now pleading as desperately as Sansa's had been, a moment ago. "Please, for me?" She licked her lips, looking very young, then. "Want you to remember this when you're old and gray. Want you to remember this when someone else tries to touch you. Every kiss, every touch. Want you to never forget this, this moment. Seven, Sansa, want to do things to you that no one else will ever be able to."

She glanced up then, wounded eyes meeting Sansa's, and Sansa swallowed.

"I won't forget anything, Margaery," she whispered, and Margaery sent her that smile again, the one that Sansa thought Margaery wasn't even aware she had been sending to Sansa more and more frequently, over the last few days. The one full of a grief that Sansa didn't dare ask about, the one that faded every time she realized Sansa had seen it.

"But I'll try," Sansa whispered dutifully, and Margaery smiled, pleased, before continuing her ravishing of Sansa's neck.

And then Margaery sucked on the spot just above Sansa's collarbone, and Sansa wasn't certain, in that moment, that she was going to be able to keep her promise. She reached down, tried to grab at her own womanhood, only for Margaery to abandon Sansa's breasts in favor of batting her hand away, never once leaving Sansa's neck.

"Margaery..." Sansa gasped out, tears stinging the corners of her eyes, and she found herself unable to meet Margaery's eyes when the other woman sat up, looking at her with an unreadable expression.

And then Margaery bent down, pressing a chaste kiss to Sansa's lips before moving down her neck, her collarbone, her chest.

Sansa whimpered, bucking up against Margaery's skin, desperate for some friction between them when Margaery was carefully not touching any part of her save where her lips pressed against Sansa.

Those lips moved down, wrapped around one nipple, tongue rolling it to a marble hardness as Sansa gasped and pleaded beneath her, the pressure in her womanhood building to an almost unbearable strength.

"Margaery, please."

Margaery snaked out a hand, running spidery fingers down Sansa's over exposed ribs, down her side, to her hips, grasping them sharply enough to make Sansa cry out as Sansa bucked upwards, as Margaery's lips trailed kisses down Sansa's stomach, as she licked around Sansa's belly button.

"Knees apart, Sansa," Margaery ordered, and Sansa moved her legs apart without even thinking, whimpering at what she hoped that implied.

Sansa reached out, tangled her hands in Margaery's hair, tried to guide her downward, but Margaery resisted, remaining stubbornly at Sansa's belly button while her hands moved downward, and Sansa keened as they moved toward her cunny, relief washing through her - right up until Margaery's fingers bypassed it completely, trailing down her hairless thighs and pulling them apart further, lips pressing kisses into Sansa's inner left thigh, then her right, teeth grazing against the skin just gently enough that Sansa didn't think she was in danger of coming from the touch to such a sensative area.

"Gods, Margaery, please!"

"Tell me how much you want me, Sansa," Margaery murmured suddenly, pulling away from Sansa completely then to stare down at her with an expression that was almost as desperate as Sansa imagined her own was, and Sansa gasped up at her. "Tell me how every time you touch yourself from now on, you're going to think of this moment, of me undoing you. Please, darling.

"Margaery..."

Margaery pulled back even further on the bed. "Tell me."

Sansa swallowed, found herself suddenly unable to hold the words back. "Please," she whimpered. "Want you. Want you to touch me." She keened, felt a single tear spill down her cheek. "Need you to fuck me. Need to feel your cunny against mine. Please, I... Margaery, please!"

Margaery's lips quirked into a small, sad smile, and then she moved, wrapped her legs around Sansa's hips, bent down to give Sansa another small kiss before sitting up on Sansa's womanhood, pressing her own gently against it, fingers moving between them as she brushed against her own womanhood.

Sansa whimpered at the contact she had been craving since they entered the bedchamber, another tear spilling out of her cheek as Margaery slowly began to grind herself down onto Sansa's womanhood.

"So good," she heard Margaery murmur above her, as her eyes began to slip shut, as Margaery reached out and tapped her cheek again. Sansa opened her eyes, and Margaery smiled down at her. "Good. So good for me."

"Margaery..." Sansa bucked her hips up against Margaery, pleased when the other woman didn't tell her to stop, pleased when, a moment later, Margaery murmured, "Come for me, darling. You can do it. I bet you could have done it without me ever even touching your-"

Sansa didn't hear the rest of what Margaery said, her cunny erupting in the next moment, spilling against Margaery's as she stifled a scream in her arm, felt her teeth sinking into flesh in her desperation to keep quiet.

A moment later, Margaery came as well, and Sansa felt it trickle down onto her own cunny even as she lay boneless, feeling nothing else in the world.

And then Margaery laid on top of her, the sensation almost as if she were falling as she curled up atop Sansa, as she placed a gentle kiss on Sansa's cheek. Sansa reached out, wrapped an arm around Margaery's hips and pulled her closer.

She didn't know what, but Sansa felt as if she had lost a piece of herself, in the bedchamber today. Felt as if Margaery had broken her apart, piece by piece, but had neglected to give every single piece back.

And, Sansa was startled to find, she didn't mind at all.

Chapter Text

Sansa blinked awake, eyes bleary from the afternoon nap, and she smiled to see Margaery laying on the bed beside her, the other woman's eyes still closed, expression peaceful in a way that Sansa wished she could have.

She reached out, running her fingers through Margaery's hair, smiling at the way the other woman shifted and moaned a little at the touch, before moving closer to Sansa almost instinctively, and causing the sheets covering her form to slip down to her waist at the same time.

She wasn't entirely sure what that had been about, what Margaery had been saying, when she promised Sansa that she wanted Sansa to always remember that afternoon of Margaery making love to her, but, with a blush, Sansa could acknowledge that she doubted it was something she could ever forget.

Margaery's lips on her burning skin, Margaery's spidering fingers...

Sansa bit her lip, suddenly wanting nothing more than to ravish the other woman once more, despite how soon it was after their earlier encounter, and then froze, remembering suddenly why it was that this moment felt so blissful.

They were in Sansa's bed, and Margaery had fallen asleep in it. Fallen asleep, naked, and looking just as unkempt as Sansa felt.

"Margaery," she whispered, shaking the other woman awake, forcing down the small twinge of delight she felt when Margaery groaned and batted at her hand, giving the other woman another shake for good measure. "Margaery, you need to wake up."

Margaery's eyes slipped open, and she glanced up at Sansa, a small pout on her features. "Just a moment longer," she mumbled, burrowing her head into the pillows, but Sansa shook her head, shaking Margaery again.

"No," she told Margaery. "No, you need to get up. Come on."

It was almost adorable, the way Margaery clung to sleep despite Sansa's prodding, but Sansa thought it would be less adorable when the Kingsguard came bursting into the room, accusing them of adultery and dragging her away to lose her head.

That thought had her giving Margaery a pinch, and the other woman sat up abruptly, glowering at her, even if it was a rather cute glower, devoid of any real heat.

"You should probably get going," Sansa said. "I didn't realize...I didn't think we were both going to fall asleep after..." she flushed, remembering exactly why they might both be so tired.

Margaery's lips pulled into a small smirk, before the look Sansa gave her had her sighing. "Yes, of course," she muttered. Then, lazily, "I thought we had this conversation, though in reverse, about walking in on each other when we are...otherwise engaged," and Sansa's brows furrowed, before she yelped in surprise, scrambling to cover herself as Ser Loras let himself into the room, shutting the door rather loudly behind him.

"Joffrey is looking for you," Ser Loras announced without preamble, and Sansa and Margaery's heads both shot up from where they sat on the bed. "He is most wroth that he can't seem to find you. Of course, I couldn't mention that you happened to be in Lord Tyrion's chambers without some problems arising from that."

"Wroth?" Sansa squeaked, before remembering herself and scrambling for the sheets once more.

Ser Loras barely spared her a glance, looking at his sister with that intense gaze that Sansa had once wrongly assumed meant something else altogether.

Margaery glanced nervously at Sansa, and then sighed, pulling the sheets off of her body and standing to her feet.

Sansa squeaked a little, for she didn't think she had ever been naked before any of her brothers, but Margaery didn't seem to notice, glancing back at Sansa with that same concerned look.

"Will you be all right?" she asked softly, and Sansa gaped at her.

Ser Loras rolled his eyes. "I'll keep an eye on her. Go, Margaery." The last words were almost a shout.

She nodded, pulling on her chemise and glancing once at Sansa in regret before hurrying out the door.

Leaving Sansa alone with Ser Loras, who stood guarding the door and looking as if he had no intention of moving from that spot.

Sansa swallowed, reached up to tuck the sheets around herself like a loose gown, combing awkwardly at her hair to return it to some semblance of propriety, though that was clearly lost in what Ser Loras had just walked in on.

What he had just walked in on. She and Margaery, lying in a tangle of sheets in her husband’s bed, both nude as the day they had been born.

He had hardly looked surprised, either, and the thought made Sansa blush furiously, even as she swallowed hard in worry.

She eyed him, the set stiffness of his jaw, the anger smoldering just behind his eyes, and was reminded of how he had killed a boy for daring to attack his sister.

Wondered how Margaery’s family was able to keep him from killing Joffrey for the same crime.

Perhaps some part of him would not begrudge his sister this, while Sansa knew that most men likely would have turned them over to the Sept for more than just adultery.

Sansa coughed, turning away from him and beginning to pick up the remnants of her gown from the floor where they had been discarded in rather a thoughtless hurry earlier. She was still wearing part of her shift, but felt rather too exposed at the moment all the same, before a man whom she had once fantasized about marrying.

Sansa sighed, glanced down at her hands once she was dressed, even if her gown was still rather rumpled.

Loras' face softened. "I am sorry for shouting," he said finally. "I am merely worried about Margaery. When Joffrey gets into his tempers..."

Sansa nodded, but her mouth remained dry, and they stood in silence for a moment longer.

"You...didn't seem surprised to find us here, earlier," Sansa said softly, not certain why she felt the need to stay in this humiliating position, even if they were her chambers, and refusing to meet his eyes, for she knew that she was flushing hotly.

Some part of her felt that she should run, and yet she found herself standing still, terrified that he would call for the guards, Margaery’s brother or no.

Loras paused. "My sister and I are...very close,” he said suggestively. “We keep few secrets from each other." He smiled ruefully. "Save for those of politics, now." He gave her a long look. “I am surprised by how long she’s kept you in her bed, however. I once thought that Margaery would never find love with anyone while I would, but...” his face saddened. “I suppose the opposite is true.”

Sansa’s breath stuck in her throat. “She’s not...”

Love, Loras had said.

Sansa swallowed hard. "I...you should probably go," she said finally, not meeting Loras' eyes. "My lord husband may be looking for me, as well."

Loras smirked for a split second, as if he knew exactly what had made Sansa so flustered, before he nodded, face serious once more. "Indeed.”

She curtseyed to Ser Loras, and then he made his way out of Sansa's chambers, and Sansa wilted a bit in relief that he was gone.

She didn't have long to be relieved, however, for in the next moment, there was a knock on her door, and Sansa froze, even if the knock had been too light to be that of a Kingsguard armored glove, terrified that she was about to be dragged before the Iron Throne, that the secret between herself and Margaery was finally out.

Swallowing hard and wishing she had some of her husband's wine, Sansa moved toward the door, opening it only halfway, and blinked at the sight of Lord Varys on the other side of it, staring at her with a blank expression as he folded his hands in front of himself once more, lips pursed.

"Lady Sansa."

Sansa startled a little when he spoke, reaching up to run a hand through her hair and wondering if the Master of Spies could tell what she had just been up to, or if he would think she had only been taking an afternoon nap, for there was something about Lord Varys that worried her even more than Lord Baelish’s ability to keep secrets.

She swallowed hard, if only to give herself a moment to be composed, before responding, "Lord Varys. You startled me."

He smirked. "A talent, my lady, easily gotten as the Master of Whispers."

She nodded, biting her lip and glancing over her shoulder as a cold shiver rushed down her spine. "I see. I am sure my lord husband will be back soon, if there is something you need of him?” she glanced down the hall and then back. “I’m not certain where he is at the moment, most likely with his lord father or-”

Lord Varys glanced down her figure, folding his hands in front of him for a long moment, before smiling thinly. "I can't imagine that to be the case, my lady. But I am here for you." He eyed her, and Sansa was struck by how difficult it was to read his gaze. "It is time; you must come with me."

And Lord Varys held out his hand to her expectantly, head angling toward a darkened corridor at the end of the hall.

Sansa knew that he would drag her into that corridor, into the shadows, and she would never be seen or heard from again, and hesitated, hand kept firmly by her side as she stared at the Master of Whispers in confusion.

"I...don't understand,” she said finally. “I...I do not believe I am expected anywhere.”

She had a sudden fear that the Master of Whispers was taking her to the throne room to be thrown down at Joffrey’s feet, pleading for mercy beside Margaery because of what they had been doing for months now.

But Joffrey would not have sent Lord Varys for that, she was certain.

Lord Varys had never shown an interest in her since her arrival in King's Landing, not in the way Lord Baelish had, and she found the two of them very similar in some ways, even if she could not say why, but they did not appear to be friends.

And yet, she had a feeling already that she knew what Lord Varys wanted of her, knew where Lord Varys would be taking her if she took his hand, and the finality of that suspicion had her hesitating where she had not thought she would do so, when she finally faced this moment.

Lord Varys waved his hand impatiently. "Prince Oberyn sent me to collect you, Lady Sansa. He is waiting to take you from this place.”

Sansa stared at him. Somehow, in all of the times she had imagined fleeing with Oberyn, she had never thought of how they would do it. Whether he and Ellaria would show up at her rooms with bags in tow and drag her along with them, whether they would do so at the head of an army or with the Lannisters’ permission, somehow. But she could honestly say, in her nonexistent imaginings of this moment, she had never thought that they would send someone else for her.

Someone they had not told her she could trust, and Sansa didn’t know what to do.

Lord Varys sighed. “I understand that this may be difficult for you, Lady Sansa,” he said, voice almost gentle, “but we must leave now, or the Lannisters will find out and you will never leave King’s Landing again.” He held out a piece of brown cloth to her that she supposed might have been a common woman’s scarf. “Put this on.”

She swallowed again, knew it was foolish even as she reached her dainty hand out to the eunuch's, but then, if she believed that Prince Oberyn had sent him-

She wrapped the scarf around her auburn hair with one hand and took the eunuch's hand with the other, and he yanked her into the dark corridor without another word.

The Dornish were keeping their promise, she told herself, as Lord Varys dragged her into a rather tight corridor.

Chapter Text

"Sansa," Ellaria breathed upon laying eyes on her, obviously recognizing her despite the flimsy disguise, smiling gently and moving down the docks to pull Sansa into a short embrace. Sansa clung to the other woman for a moment, closing her eyes and pretending that the Dornish spices hanging off the other woman reminded her of her mother.

Sansa pulled back, eyed the rest of the party in bemusement. Ellaria's ladies were there, as well as the Dornish guards, but Oberyn himself was conspicuously absent.

But it took her only a moment to hear his voice, loud and annoyed, echoing down the docks from the ship, where he appeared to be in a less than friendly conversation with the ship's captain, and Sansa flushed at the bit of relief she felt, at hearing it.

She glanced back at where Lord Varys and she had emerged from a strange tunnel leading out of the Keep, but the Spider was already gone, vanished once more into the blackness of the passageway.

If Sansa's heart wasn't already beating fast enough to burst from her chest, Sansa might have been frightened by that.

Lord Varys had silently taken her through the dark tunnels beneath the Keep, dragging her along with only a flickering torch for light until Sansa thought she might trip and fall, and no one but the eunuch would ever know what had become of her.

But she didn’t, and when they made it out of the Keep and then to the city walls, making their way through one hidden passage to another until they had reached the docks, Sansa remembered how to breathe once more.

"Are you ready?" Ellaria asked her gently, seemingly not as bothered by Lord Varys' vanishing as she was, and Sansa almost didn't answer the question. Of course she was ready; she had been waiting so long for this. Of course she wasn't; she had not been given the time to bring along the scant few belongings she possessed; she had not been given the chance to say goodbye to Margaery, to explain herself.

“Lord Varys...?” she asked, breathlessly deflecting the question.

Ellaria shook her head. “A friend to us, I assure you. He agreed to help us smuggle you out of King's Landing."

Sansa blinked in surprise, for she hadn't realized that Lord Varys had ever been her friend, even if he was a friend of the Martells.

"Why..." Sansa wasn't even sure what it was she wished to ask, but Ellaria simply smiled, hugging her once more.

"Oberyn was less than pleased by Lord Tywin's wish to keep him prisoner here, or any of us. If he wishes to enforce that idea, he will have to take it up with Dorne's impregnable walls. And," she gave Sansa a small smile, "We felt that you had waited long enough for us to fulfill our promise to you. Now. Are you ready? We really should be making our way onto the ship."

And, with a feeling of trepidation, for something was churning in Sansa's gut that she couldn't explain, Sansa took Ellaria's hand and moved down the docks toward the ship, not meeting Ellaria's eyes.

Ellaria and Oberyn were keeping their promise, she reminded herself. It was finally time to go.

Ellaria gave her a small smile, reaching out to rub a thumb gently over Sansa's cheek. "It's going to be all right, Sansa," she promised, and Sansa gulped and tried to believe the other woman as they moved forward, as one of the Dornish guards signaled to the ship's captain, and the captain began shouting orders to his men.

Sansa flinched at the sound of shouting, as if one ship's captain shouting might give the whole game away, but no gold cloaks came out to stop them, she did not hear the sound of horses stampeding the shipyard.

Still, it was not until they had made it onto the ship, a sleek thing belonging to a Dornish merchant happy to be of service to the Prince of Dorne and his paramour, that Sansa realized what the feeling was. That she had not said goodbye to Margaery, had not even hinted to Loras, to Shae, to her husband, for she hadn't even known she was leaving until the moment she did.

She had just...left. She hadn't even brought any of her things with her, though, if Sansa was honest about it, she wasn't sure she could regret that part of it.

And she reminded herself that the Martells were doing this, committing treason by stealing her away, out of the goodness of their hearts, and that she should not begrudge them their planning.

Sansa stepped daintily over the rail of the merchant vessel, taking the hand of one of Ellaria's ladies when she offered it, and clutching her scarf a little more closely around her head with the other. She knew that these people must be loyal to the Martells, and yet she found herself not willing to take the chance of recognition.

Ellaria reached out to take Sansa's hand once they both stood on the deck of the ship, seeming to realize how helpless Sansa felt, in that moment. She paused, reaching out to fix Sansa's headscarf.

Sansa wobbled a little where she stood, not used to the feel of the sea beneath the ground she stood on, and Ellaria smiled at her, looking faintly amused.

"Captain," Oberyn said when he caught sight of Sansa, giving her a reassuring little wink that had Sansa smiling despite herself, and Sansa watched as he tossed the captain a bag that jingled. "The rest, as promised."

The captain weighed the money in his hand for a moment, and then nodded, but not before giving Sansa a cool, assessing look. "We will be ready to leave momentarily, my prince."

And then he turned, ankles clicking as he walked away, and Sansa reminded herself to breathe again, if only for a moment. Ellaria seemed to notice, turning to her once more.

"Come, Sansa. Down below, while the men get the ship ready to leave the harbor," Ellaria told her, and Sansa swallowed, shot the other woman a small smile.

She followed Ellaria into the belly of the ship, stepping nimbly down the provided ladder and ignoring the stairs of the sailors as they went, as Ellaria's ladies followed after them in silence.

Sansa's heart was beating so quickly in her chest that she was afraid it was going to pop out of her chest, her mind flitting from one extreme to another. She was finally leaving this wretched hole of a place. Everything about this leaving, now that it was finally happening, felt wrong in a way that left her stomach full of bitter nausea. Joffrey was going to figure out immediately that they had escaped and track them down, kill everyone and drag Sansa back. She was finally going to reach Dorne, a place she felt she knew so much about from Ellaria's tales already.

"Sansa?" Ellaria called, and Sansa blinked, forced herself to give the other woman a smile.

"Sorry," she murmured. "I..."

Ellaria's face softened, and she reached out, taking Sansa's hand once more. "You're safe now, Sansa," she promised the young woman. "The Lannisters have lost you. And we will provide for you everything you might need, in Dorne."

Sansa shook her head. "Surely, they will come after me. They will-"

"Then we will deal with that when the time comes," Ellaria interrupted her gently, though there was something about her sympathetic expression that left Sansa far from relieved.

And then she was leading Sansa down the hall before the younger woman could protest, leading her into a small cabin at the end of the hall and ignoring the looks the sailors were sending Sansa, a room bare save for the luggage sitting in the corner, and several hammocks that had been set up.

Sansa bit her lip, glancing over her shoulders to watch as Ellaria's ladies, Lady Blackmont and her daughter, moved into the room as well, wondered if they were now inhabiting the captain's quarters. It was the sort of thing that she had heard was allotted to noblewomen aboard a ship.

She glanced around the room, rubbing her arms and feeling rather bare in the gown she had only managed to scrounge around herself when Ser Loras had come barging into her rooms. The cabin was not quite as large as the chambers she shared with Tyrion, but then, she supposed that hardly mattered. It would be a matter of days before they were in Dorne, and far from King's Landing, and Sansa didn't care if she had to make the journey in a crate.

The other ladies were dressed in cooler clothes, clothes befitting a long ride at sea, even if Dorne would be far warmer, and Sansa wondered how much warning they'd had, before hurrying off to the ship.

She rather regretted not grabbing something of her few belongings to take along with her, when she had taken Lord Varys' hand and disappeared down the hall with him. Wished she'd had more of a warning.

"You will have to share these quarters with me and my ladies, if that is all right," Ellaria told her, and Sansa nodded shakily. "Prince Oberyn and the other men will have their own quarters. I thought that might make you more comfortable."

"Of course," Sansa murmured, feeling a little loss where she stood. "You've been more than kind even bringing me along with you," she told the other woman, and Ellaria merely smiled at her.

"We made you a promise," she told the younger girl blithely, before sweeping further into their chambers and collapsing into one of the hammocks, rubbing idly at her temples. "Though I wish the Crown had not forced our hands."

Sansa glanced up, the worry on Ellaria's face making her worried in turn. "Do you think they really will come after us?"

Ellaria smiled, though Sansa thought it was meant to be more reassuring than genuine. "I doubt it, dear child," she promised Sansa. "Lord Tywin may be a very stubborn old man, but even he knows which battles to fight and which to leave lying, and he has no reason to believe that we would steal you. Princess Myrcella is still in Dorne, as well, and if he ignores our departure, it will only make his words of keeping Oberyn in King's Landing seem like a show. And I do not think that he will immediately suspect that you have left with us. Your husband seems..." she inhaled. "Sympathetic."

Sansa winced, wondering what the bloodbath would be like if Lord Tywin decided to come after Prince Oberyn when he realized that Sansa was gone, as well. Wondering if Margaery would be caught in that crossfire. Wondering what sort of woman so casually mentioned Myrcella as a piece of leverage against the Lannisters, should it come to that. "I..."

She didn't know what to say, and, after a long moment of silence, Ellaria seemed to realize this. She gestured to one of the hammocks, and Sansa found herself crawling down onto it, even if she felt rather awkward, doing so. If she had thought the rocking of the ship beneath her feet was bad enough, this was entirely different, if not unpleasant.

"Sleep, Sansa," Ellaria murmured, motioning for her companions to give them some space, ignoring the strange look that Jynessa Blackmont was sending their way. "I will keep watch. You'll have everything you need, once we reach Dorne." She reached out, brushing a hand through Sansa's hair beneath the scarf over it, and Sansa found the touch rather comforting. "Sleep."

And Sansa rubbed her eyes, and tried very hard to believe the other woman's words.

The lull of the ship after she felt them rock against the docks once more before they left the harbor behind completely eventually had her closing her eyes, and Sansa leaned into Ellaria's fingers in her hair, ignored the sound of whispering voices above her, and found a bit of peace, as she slept.

Chapter Text

Margaery took her husband's hand, a little at a loss for how one comforted an insane man who hated to show any weakness, and hated anyone who witnessed him doing so. At a loss as to whether or not she should even be comforting him, or whether he would rather crow victory, at the news.

She wished Sansa was in the room, that she might get a read of which to do from the other woman's face.

Sansa didn't seem to realize it at all, but there were times when Margaery only knew how to react to Joffrey by reading Sansa's face. The younger woman knew Joffrey better than she thought she did, and she had, after all, been present, or at least in the Keep, when Robert Baratheon had died, and might be able to shed some light from that in her expressions.

But Sansa had not been invited to the King's inner bedchamber to share in this news; that had only been Margaery, dragged from her bed in the early morning by her ladies at Joffrey's command.

Margaery had not even known that Lord Tywin was dead until she was halfway down the hall to her husband's chambers, the words whispered to her by Alla as she shrugged into her shawl. Margaery had just had the time to plaster on a face of mourning and shock before she was pushed into her husband's chambers, to find him sitting on the edge of his bed, looking even more shocked than she.

Margaery knew that her young husband did not like Lord Tywin, was afraid of him and did not like that the Hand so openly bossed him about and controlled him. Knew that he did not like being told 'no' by one of the few in Westeros willing to do so.

But she also knew that Lord Tywin was his blood, and actually knew how to run the kingdom while Joffrey postured and pretended and had not a damn clue.

A part of Margaery almost could not believe that the old lion was dead, that anyone could be foolish enough as to kill the man, even if he had been hated by half of King's Landing.

He'd been killed, not in some grand battle or by some fatal enemy, but squatting over his own shit, a knife through his heart by some unknown assailant.

Lord Tywin was dead, and the rest of King's Landing seemed to have gone to the seven hells, without him.

He had died just the night before, though no one had found his corpse until early this morning, it seemed; some unsuspecting serving girl had been sent to summon him to a meeting of the Small Council, and found him like that.

Margaery couldn't imagine what the Hand of the King's chambers had smelt like, at that point.

And, as if that was not bad enough, Sansa appeared to have vanished, according to Alla's whispered words in her ear later in the morning, as she and Joffrey sat through a bland, silent breakfast. One of Margaery's ladies had gone to find her, only to see that Lord Tyrion's chambers were empty of anyone save the equally shocked Tyrion Lannister, sitting on his bed in shock, his supposed lover Shae kneeling before him, looking concerned.

Margaery had experienced a sick worry at the warning from Alla for a few moments, before she managed to convince herself that Sansa was merely somewhere else within the Keep, had to be, despite the early hour. Or tried to, at any rate. The coincidence of the timing of being unable to find Sansa and everything else that had happened in the last couple of days was too striking.

She reached out, running a hand through her husband's hair and struggling to withhold a sigh when he jerked away from her.

She would have to send a letter to her grandmother about this latest development as soon as she was free of Joffrey's presence. She knew that the old woman was getting antsy the longer that Cersei remained away from King's Landing, and her own letters to Margaery painted quite a different tale of the Lannister Lioness than Willas had as yet been sending her.

"I am truly sorry for your loss, my love," Margaery murmured, looking at the far wall in lieu of her husband, at the painting on the wall depicting what the smallfolk were calling the Red Wedding.

Joffrey grunted. He looked shaken, face pale and eyes beating around the room manically. His eyes were red rimmed, though he had not been crying when Margaery had entered the room and did not look near to tears now.

"They just...found him," he gritted out, and it took Margaery a moment to realize that her husband was not sad with grief, but...angry. Furious, even. "Sitting over his own shit, stinking of death for all that he was barely gone. No one was even there."

Margaery bit the inside of her cheek. "A shame," she murmured sympathetically.

Joffrey grunted again. "He would have hated it to be known that he died like that. My grandfather was a very proud man. Whoever killed him will pay."

Margaery nodded, surprised by her husband's thoughtfulness at all. For a scant moment, she found herself pondering her own death, the thought appearing out of nowhere and refusing to leave once it did. She imagined herself murdered somehow, and in her mind's eye it was always Cersei accomplishing that, imagined Joffrey's shock at the news, wondered how he might react to it. If he would even be this thoughtful about it.

"It is a great shame, my love," she murmured, reaching out to stroke his shoulder as she found herself once more, reminded herself that Cersei was off in Highgarden even now, even if she knew the woman would not remain there long, with the news of her father's death. "Are you all right?"

He turned on her, where he sat beside her on the bed, their legs not touching, for Margaery had curled her own up onto the blankets, unsure if her husband would be able to feel the way she was shaking, but not wishing to risk it.

"Of course I am," he said, tone dismissive. "I am the King. My Hand's death is a tragic thing, but we will overcome it because we must."

And because her lord husband did not wish to appear weak before his wife, Margaery reminded herself, or perhaps because he truly could not feel any more emotion than that about another human.

"Of course," she agreed dutifully. "I only meant...it must feel very strange, to lose a man who has been at the center of our kingdom for so long."

Joffrey waved a hand, clearly done with this conversation, even if his face had not yet regained the color it had lost the moment he had learned the news of his grandfather's death. "He was a good Hand," he acknowledged, "but we will take what he has taught through his many years and improve upon it." He sniffed, looking at Margaery in that predatory way that always meant he was imagining Sansa Stark in her place. "In many ways, he was behind the times."

And now he was dead, and unable to keep the King from doing as he pleased, Margaery read into the words with a certain dread.

Margaery nodded, wondered if he was faking even this much emotion because his wife sat beside him, or if he was merely questioning the fact that his wife, seemingly his equal in that regard, should feel anything at all about Lord Tywin's death, either.

"Well," Margaery said then, trying her luck as her hand snaked down her husband's arm, to his waist. "We have earned one good thing from this tragedy," she murmured, hand petting her husband's thigh.

Joffrey's eyes flitted up to meet her own, and he smiled darkly, one hand reaching out and caressing her side teasingly. Margaery arched into the touch, wondered, if the gods exist, what they must think to see her profiting so quickly from that old lion's death.