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The summer flowers have just started to bloom when Sansa visits Highgarden.
Roses dot the gardens and bed chambers and walkways of the castle, a colorful explosion of red and pink, white and yellow. Her bedchamber has a different assortment of flowers each morning that make her room smell of honeysuckle and peonies, lavender and rosemary. The castle is alive with laughter and songs and sunlight, and the kitchens and markets overflow with peaches and fireplums, apples and melons.
The atmosphere of the Reach is so very different from that of King’s Landing or the Vale or the North, and the vibrancy of it all makes Sansa feel as though she’s in a dream.
Except her dreams haven’t been this bright or carefree for far longer than she cares to remember. Her bones ache with the memory of winter, and there’s a sorrow that runs through her veins, that pierces her heart and her soul and makes her long for the summers of her childhood.
Because while summer may have finally come, there are still whispers of winter in even the brightest corner of the Reach. She sees it in the shadow of a destroyed home, in the hushed conversations in the corridors, in the regret and anguish that flicker across Margaery’s face when she thinks no one is looking.
Sansa had accepted Margaery’s invitation to visit Highgarden with some hesitation. It’s been years since she last saw Margaery, and while she had yearned to stay in the North with her brothers and sister, a part of her also longed to escape from the trappings of Winterfell.
I think we could have been very good friends if our situations had been different, she had written. Long ago, I promised you would see Highgarden. That promise still remains if you ever wish to visit.
Margaery understands Sansa’s pain more than most. Knows what it’s like to lose a brother, to lose a kingdom. For all that transpired in King’s Landing years ago, Sansa can’t forget the kind gestures and genuine words Margaery once gave her. They were cherished then and now, after all that has passed, Sansa yearns to hear them again.
*
Sansa takes to spending her days wandering the gardens, joined by Margaery more often than not. Sansa had worried that their interactions would be awkward, that the events of the war would come between them. But Margaery had greeted her warmly when she’d arrived, had drawn her in for a hug and told her how glad she was to see Sansa again.
Margaery is quieter than Sansa remembers, and her smiles are less frequent. She wears her grief like a cloak, and Sansa’s heart hurts for her. She knows what it’s like to lose a brother. (Knows what it’s like to lose a parent. To lose a home. A name.)
We’ve all lost someone or something from the war, she thinks. The years have not yet dulled the pain of losing her family. And though she’s gotten her younger brothers and sister back, she still misses her mother and her father, misses Robb the most out of all of them.
She doesn’t ask Margaery about Loras and Margaery doesn’t ask about Sansa’s family. Instead, they talk of flowers and dresses, music and books. It’s simple and relaxing, and after a few days, Sansa lets her guard down.
“It was summer the last time I saw you,” Margaery says one afternoon. She twirls a flower between her fingers, her face thoughtful.
It seems long ago now, those days in King’s Landing when Sansa lived in fear of her life, dreaming of the day she’d escape back home.
“I never thanked you,” Sansa says abruptly.
“For what?”
“For being kind to me. For Joffrey,” she says. She feels like a child again, unable to articulate anything without sounding like a fool.
Margaery doesn’t reply, just places her hand on Sansa’s arm and smiles. Later, Sansa isn’t sure whether it was the smile or the soft touch of her hand that made her tremble.
*
Once, when she had been in King’s Landing, Margaery had taken her by the hand as they walked in the gardens. Had brushed the hair from Sansa’s face with soft, gentle fingers. Had smiled and gifted Sansa with dresses and lemoncakes and fruit from the Reach. She’d let her fingers brush over the curve of Sansa’s shoulder and the small of her back, had looked at her with care and affection.
And something inside Sansa had twisted and ached, had made her shiver and blush, made her secretly wish for things that she knew would never be hers to have.
*
Sansa adores the pleasure boats that sail along the Mander. Margaery accompanies her sometimes, smiles at Sansa’s unadulterated joy as the boats float atop the calm water. They feast on fruits and cheeses and wine, laugh at the antics of the bards and singers, take pleasure in each other’s company as they recline on the boats and let the sun kiss their skin.
It’s on one of these trips that Sansa finds herself distracted by the sound of Margaery’s laugh and the touch of her hands and the swell of her breasts. Finds herself wondering if Margaery’s skin is as smooth as the silk she wears or if her kisses taste like the wine she’s been drinking.
She flushes, ashamed, when Margaery catches her staring, and she turns away, unable to face Margaery’s knowing, secretive smile. Sansa is no stranger to desire, but it feels wrong to stare somewhere so open, so happy.
There is still a part of her that worries that she doesn’t deserve this happines, that it will all disappear at a moment’s notice.
*
Sansa stays in Highgarden for one month, then another, and before she knows it three months have passed. She writes to Arya and Bran and Rickon, lets them know that she is well, that she is happy here amongst the roses and sunshine.
By the middle of her third month in Highgarden, rumors begin to circulate that she’ll be the future Lady of Highgarden, that she’s to marry Willas Tyrell in a few months time.
Willas is sweet and handsome and generous. He smiles at her in a way that makes the frozen part of her heart melt, speaks to her with a voice that’s quiet and kind. There was a time when he was everything Sansa had wanted, when she had dreamt of finding refuge in his arms, in the gardens and courtyards that populate the Reach.
But Sansa no longer dreams of marriage or husbands, of knights or songs. Those dreams died when her father and mother and brother were murdered, when her home was burnt to the ground and her name was changed.
“My brother is kind,” Margaery says. She smiles as they watch Willas tend to his horses, and her face is open and affectionate in a way it rarely is anymore. “He would make a good husband.”
“He would,” Sansa says.
She would not mind Willas as a husband, but Sansa knows that Willas is not the Tyrell she desires.
*
It becomes harder to ignore the thrall Margaery has over her. Harder not to quiver and flush whenever they’re alone.
They break their fast in Margaery’s rooms one morning, laugh as Margaery tells her a story about her brothers when they were younger. After, Margaery insists that Sansa try on one of her new dresses, watches her with a strange smile as she slips the silk and linen over her body.
Margaery’s hands are gentle as they trail over Sansa’s bare shoulders, her fingers warm where they brush against the slope of Sansa’s neck. She sweeps Sansa’s hair off to one side as she inspects the fit of the dress, letting her fingers brush against the golden embroidery on the bodice. It’s been so long since Sansa’s been graced with a tender touch that she quivers at the contact. It makes Margaery smile and she wraps her arms around Sansa’s waist, resting her chin on Sansa’s shoulder.
Margaery twists a lock of Sansa’s hair around her finger, smiling softly. “You have such lovely hair. It’s the color of summer roses.”
No, Sansa thinks, it’s the color of the weirwood’s leaves. The color of my mother’s hair. Of Robb’s hair. It’s the color of home.
Sansa stares at herself in the mirror, cheeks red from the wine they had earlier. Wine makes her bold, makes her say things she shouldn’t, makes her think of things she tries to forget.
“My mother had red hair. She used to brush my hair when I was young,” she says. It doesn’t hurt as much as it once did to talk of her mother. Sansa remembers flashes of her childhood, memories that are more like fading dreams. She worries that one day she won’t remember anything at all. “She was very beautiful. I used to dream of the day I’d be as beautiful as her.”
Margaery laughs, light and amused. “You are very beautiful, you know.”
Sansa feels the back of her neck heat in embarrassment, feels her heart skip a beat at Margaery’s admission. Margaery’s arms are still tight around her waist, her fingers light as they trace aimless patterns on Sansa’s hips. Her touch feels like wildfire, hot and dangerous, and Sansa shudders, closes her eyes and leans her head back to rest against Margaery’s.
I want this, she realizes with surprise.
And when Margaery moves to kiss her, long and deep and sensual, Sansa lets her.
*
That night, Sansa dreams about Margaery.
She wakes, aching and flushed, and feels only a tiny curl of shame when she slides a hand down between her thighs. She brings herself off as she thinks about how they would look together, as she imagines how Margaery’s hands would feel on her body, how nice it would be to share her bed.
When her release comes, she whispers Margaery’s into the dark night air.
*
Margaery’s kisses are intoxicating.
In fact, everything about Margaery is intoxicating. Sansa finds herself completely overwhelmed, can’t stop smiling whenever she’s near Margaery, whenever the other girl pulls her into a garden or library or alcove to kiss her senseless.
Margaery currently has her pressed against the wall of an archway, is placing a string of feather light kisses up the column of her neck.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for ages,” Margaery says. She runs a hand down Sansa’s side, smiles against Sansa’s skin when it makes her release a quiet moan. “Ever since we first talked in King’s Landing.”
“That long?” Sansa asks, breathless. She runs a hand through Margaery’s hair, marvels at the way it feels as soft as rose petals, at the way it smells of lavender.
“That long,” Margaery confirms.
Sansa means to ask her what else she had wanted to do, means to tell her that she’s always shared the same desire, but then Margaery’s hand slips underneath her dress and the words are lost on her tongue.
*
They’re curled together in a hidden section of the garden, Sansa’s head resting in Margaery’s lap, when Margaery suddenly says, “Do you miss Winterfell?”
There is no judgment or insinuation in her tone, only genuine curiosity with perhaps a hint of sorrow.
There is nothing left but stone and ash and the memory of a hundred ghosts, Sansa wants to say. Even the presence of my brothers and sister can’t bring back all that we lost.
Sansa misses the Winterfell of her childhood, misses watching Robb and Jon practice swords in the courtyard, misses watching Bran climb everything he could reach. She misses Rickon when he was young and brash and still an innocent child, misses the days when Arya didn’t have unknown horrors hidden in her past.
“I miss what Winterfell used to be,” Sansa says.
Margaery says nothing, instead strokes Sansa’s hair, a small, sad smile on her face.
And did you miss Highgarden when you were imprisoned in King’s Landing? Will you ever leave again now that you’re safely back?
Sansa almost asks, but she hesitates, not sure if she wants to hear the answer. She knows that she can’t stay here forever, that whatever this is between them won’t last.
Would you visit Winterfell for me, she wonders, a thick sense of despair washing over her. Or will this end the moment I have to return home?
She doesn’t ask the questions, but from the way Margaery looks at her, frowning and calculating all at once, Sansa thinks she knows anyway.
*
“You should marry my brother,” Margaery says. Her tone is pragmatic, reasonable. It’s the same tone she used when she once broached the idea to Sansa back in King’s Landing. “You won’t have to leave Highgarden.”
“I don’t love him.” Margaery strokes the skin of Sansa’s exposed shoulder, and it makes Sansa’s skin tingle, makes her draw in a sharp, pleased breath. “We couldn’t continue this even if I did. It wouldn’t be honorable.”
Margaery purses her lips and looks away. She doesn’t mention it again.
*
Sansa knows she has to return to Winterfell.
“I’ve been here for four months,” she says. She keeps her back to Margaery because it’s easier to say the words, easier to keep her heart from feeling as though it’ll beat its way out of her chest.
“Let’s talk about this later,” Margaery says, voice strangely calm. She skims her hand down Sansa’s shoulder, curls her fingers around Sansa’s wrist and tugs her until she’s flat on her back. Margaery looms above her, her long hair falling down like a curtain around them.
Margaery kisses her then, licks her way into Sansa’s mouth and swallows each of Sansa’s moans and whimpers. She slides one hand down Sansa’s body, gently circling and pinching her nipples in a way that makes fire pool in the pit of Sansa’s stomach. Margaery smiles into the kiss, listens to Sansa’s desperate pleas and moves her hand lower. She trails her fingers along the soft skin of Sansa’s thigh, laughs when Sansa arches and spreads her legs automatically.
“No, not tonight, sweetling,” she whispers. She places one last, lingering kiss on Sansa’s mouth and then sinks lower, kissing a path across Sansa’s stomach and hips and thighs.
Sansa’s breath hitches when Margaery settles between Sansa’s thighs, her breath warm and sweet against Sansa’s skin. Sansa shivers when Margaery licks a stripe up Sansa’s slit, her tongue firm and insistent against her sex. Margaery alternates between sucking and kissing and licking, and it makes Sansa fist a hand in Margaery’s hair, makes her tug at it slightly when Margaery hits a particularly sensitive spot.
Her body is warm and taut, and Sansa closes her eyes as she leans her head back against the pillows. Margaery’s chambers are heady with the scent of roses and sex, and it makes Sansa feel drowsy and content and languid. She squirms underneath Margaery’s touch, lets out a low whimper when Margaery licks deeper and longer. Her tongue curls against Sansa’s sex, laps at her in a way that sounds wanton and dirty and utterly thrilling.
Sansa moans, legs jerking with the telltale signs of her impending orgasm. Margaery laughs when Sansa spreads her legs even further, and the reverberation of the laugh make Sansa shudder and come, spilling inside Margaery’s mouth. She trembles afterward, is barely aware of Margaery climbing back up the bed to hover over her.
She can taste herself on Margaery lips when they kiss, and it makes her sigh, makes her quake with renewed desire. Sansa curls one hand around Margaery’s neck, dragging her down into a deeper kiss, and slips the other hand down between their bodies. Margaery is wet and slick, and she whines into Sansa’s mouth when Sansa slides two fingers inside of her. Sansa twists her fingers inside Margaery, curls them and strokes her quick and rough until Margaery is panting and needy above her. Margaery rocks down against her hand, twists her hips almost in a rhythm that matches the slide of Sansa’s fingers. Sansa’s barely added a third finger when Margaery comes, her body trembling as she coats Sansa’s fingers with her juices.
Sansa wipes them on the bedsheets after, nose scrunched up in distaste, and turns to find Margaery regarding her with a fond smile.
“I’ll miss you when you leave,” she says softly, running a hand through Sansa’s disheveled hair.
“I—”
“Tomorrow,” Margaery says. She wraps an arm around Sansa, drags her forward until they’re a mess of entwined limbs. Sansa goes to her, cuddles up against Margaery’s side, and falls asleep to the feel of Margaery’s hands carding through her hair.
*
Sansa wakes around midday. There’s a cool breeze that floats in through the open window and it makes her shiver and burrow under the covers. Margaery is warm against her side, her brown hair fanned out over the white pillows and sheets that line her bed. Sansa places a light kiss on Margaery’s shoulder, smiles when Margaery murmurs in her sleep.
Margaery wakes not long after and they lie there together trading slow kisses, both too distracted and content and warm to leave the room.
“They’ll be looking for us,” Sansa says, voice still deep and husky with sleep.
“Let them,” Margaery says, laughing as she kisses Sansa’s collarbone. “I’d like to have you to myself for one more morning.”
Margaery props herself up on one arm, reaches forward to cup Sansa’s face with one hand. She brushes her thumb across Sansa’s jaw, her expression happy.
“I was thinking,” she says, and the combination of her tone and expression make Sansa frown in worry, “that since I’ve been kind enough to extend an invitation for you to visit Highgarden, you should do the same for me.” She smiles, sly and enigmatic. “I’ve always wanted to visit the North. I’ve heard it’s very beautiful there.”
“Yes, of course,” she says, and something warm and tender blooms near her heart, makes her pulse quicken and her heart race.
Is this what love feels like, she wonders. She thinks, distantly, of the songs and stories and poems she loved as a girl.
Margaery laughs, draws her in for another kiss, and when she pulls back, Sansa stares at her, at this wonderfully beautiful girl who has changed so much of her life with nothing more than a kind word. With nothing more than a caress and a kiss. There’s a kernel of hope that blossoms and unfurls in her chest, and it takes her a moment to realize that she’s startlingly happy, that she’s never felt more at peace than here in bed with Margaery.