Chapter Text
Sansa should have been relieved to see Margaery Tyrell dance with Joffrey in her place, and she is. Thankful that the omega holds his undivided attention and that she will not be forced to marry him after all.
Not that Margaery becoming his wife is certain either. With the Starks’ fall from grace, a number of other families have stepped forward to claim the honor, and their beautiful sons and daughters fill the court, each intent on winning over Joffrey’s heart.
But, Sansa admits to herself as she morosely pushes around the food filling her plate, she is jealous, too. For every aspirant that arrived at the Red Keep, a feast was thrown by their family in the hope of impressing the Queen Regent, but none had been as lavish as the one organized for Margaery’s debut in court.
It is not at all surprising: Mace Tyrell is the richest lord in the Seven Kingdoms after Tywin Lannister, and from the amount of gold he’d spent for both their meal and the entertainment, he must think Margaery to already be Queen.
Which, considering the way Joffrey presses insistent and possessive against her as they dance, she may as well already be - if only just in name. Perhaps Sansa is as stupid as Cersei claims, but she doesn’t doubt the true power will reside with the Queen Regent, no matter who marries her son.
But the feast - oh, it is everything Sansa had desired for herself since she was little and dreaming of the strapping prince that she would marry.
Food of all kinds is piled high on every table, so much so that the polished wood is barely visible beneath the assortment of silverware and pots and drinking cups. There’s stuffed pheasants and deer stew, spiced with cloves in the manner typical of Highgarden. Other birds, which Sansa cannot name, and an entire roasted pig, whose head Joffrey gleefully lopped off with a jewel-encrusted sword at the start of dinner.
And then, more vegetables than one could keep track of. Potatoes cooked in milk and steamed greens, pickled cabbage and onions soaked in vinegar. The smells rising from it all mix in Sansa’s nose, and combined with the honeyed wine she’s been drinking to force at least some of the food down, make her feel lightheaded.
Since her father’s execution, Sansa can barely eat. Aware that she needs to keep her strength up, she pushes herself to, but even the most seasoned dish tastes like ash.
Meat is certainly the worst - Sansa is reminded of Father’s death whenever she is presented with some. The cruel descent of the headsman’s axe and the spray of arterial blood that misted the air in its wake. The crack of bone.
Earlier that evening, Joffrey had brought her the plate with the pig’s head and watched with a nasty smile as she was forced to cut into the fleshy snout and down a bite.
She hated him back then, even through the fear, and she hates him now while he throws his head back and laughs at something Margaery just said.
Snatching up her cup, Sansa drains what’s left of her wine, thinking she may still vomit at the memory.
Luckily, Joffrey is as easily distracted as he is brutish, and the troupé of jugglers Mace had hired to enliven the feast serves the purpose nicely.
Sansa’s thoughts are diverted, too, for a time, by their antics and the music and the splendid couples dancing.
Nobody comes to ask if she would like to join in, of course, but she doesn’t have it in her heart to blame them.
She is the daughter of a traitor after all.
Thanks to the wine and the heat, a sort of lassitude descends on her. The white-knuckled grip she had around her cup slackens, and as thoughts of treason and headsmen subside, Sansa lets the music lull her into a more relaxed state. The pain that always accompanies her, awake or asleep, lessens a little.
The lively jigs give way to quieter, more intimate dances as the night progresses, and Sansa hides a small smile behind a sleeve. The musicians must be trying to spare the guests embarrassment, having realized how drunk most of them are.
Margaery is still dancing, but her partner has changed.
Joffrey had abandoned her a while back, having had far more wine than what he’s used to. Judging from his red and sweaty cheeks, he’s liable to pass out any minute, but that isn’t deterring him from slurrily recounting the day of Lord Eddard’s execution. He talks loud enough that, over the music, Sansa can hear snatches of the story - which he must have picked on purpose.
From the varying degrees of horror and disgust etched on the faces of those around him, he’s sparing no detail either - Grand Maester Pycelle looks positively green .
The young King wants her to react, maybe flee the hall in tears. Or, even worse, try and defend her father’s honor. Sansa pulls a pitcher to herself instead - this time drinking only water - and returns to her study of the dancers.
She can’t decide who, between Loras and Margaery, looks finer in their rich brocades. Before coming South, she would have undoubtedly picked Loras, but now she is unable to make up her mind.
The siblings are dressed in the teal of their House, and roses picked in gold thread climb up their sleeves. A ceremonial sword hangs at Loras’s waist, with an emerald in the shape of a rose for pommel, and even as he dances, his eyes never rest on one place. Whenever his alert gaze finds the King, his face and shoulders tighten - his disgust is evident, at least to Sansa.
Loras is splendid, true, but when Sansa looks at Margaery, a different kind of longing moves her heart - scorching heat stirs something lower.
She heard rumors about Margaery’s beauty well before the omega arrived at court, but nothing prepared her for the truth. In the glow of the torches, the omega’s brown hair shines almost auburn, and her eyes devour the light, pale blue one moment, and soft brown when cast in shadow.
Where Loras adorned himself with metal roses and precious stones, Margaery had chosen real flowers. A wreath circles her brow, the roses white, and red and gold, while countless more have been sewn onto the fabric of her cloak. Loras spins his sister into a daring pirouette, and petals in every color Sansa could think of rain onto the floor.
There is more gossip doing the rounds in court of course, and none of it is flattering. Some of it says Margaery slept with Renly and Loras both, and other, darker tidbits insinuate that she had been pregnant with a Baratheon pup and used a potion to dispose of the unborn before coming to the Keep.
Sansa refuses to believe any of it - they say worse lies of her, so why should this be true?
Barely moving her head, she looks around, noting how most of those who are still awake are staring as avidly as she.
Sansa cannot blame them.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Cersei had materialized at her side, completely unseen. Her face is a mask of fury, and wildfire burns within her eyes. She gives Sansa no time to reply, but pulls her to her feet and drags her to a shadowed corner of the hall.
This is it, Sansa trembles, squeezing her eyes shut as she staggers in Cersei’s angry wake. This is the moment the Queen summons the headsman for her, just like she threatened to do so many other times.
“N-nothing, my Queen.” Cersei’s fingers dig into the meat of her arm, and she bites back on a yelp. She can feel her skin already bruising .
“Nothing?” Her hold tightens. “Then why did you choose to dress in black? Are you trying to bring bad luck to my Joffrey? Unless…” A weighting look enters those hard, green eyes. “Unless you are in mourning for your father.” Cersei pauses again, then shakes Sansa by her arm. “Well? Answer me! Are you?”
“N-no!” Sansa wishes she could tear herself away, but she’s too scared what would draw attention. Their exchange is quiet enough to go unnoticed, and the other nobles too far into their cups, but if she caused a commotion, things would change very fast.
Very badly for her.
“My father is - was - a traitor, my Queen.” She repeats the words she’s learned by rote, trying to sound convincing. “I wore black because I did not wish to take any attention away from Lady Margaery.” She drops her eyes demurely and hopes it is enough.
“As if you could!” Every word Cersei says bubbles with acid until it feels like she’s spitting venom in Sansa’s face. “You really are a stupid little bird aren’t you?” She lets Sansa go and shoves her back a pace. “What a waste it is to be born with a cock but not know how to use it.”
The last cutting remark is thrown in her direction over a shoulder, the Queen already walking back to her seat at the High Table.
Sansa slinks back against the wall, grateful that the gloom helps her hide her tears.
*********
Sansa runs.
When she is sure to be completely removed from Cersei’s mind, she makes for the door. It’s easy enough to leave the hall unseen by keeping to the shadows – the hard part is resisting the urge to bolt before she’s out of sight.
At the door, she joins a group of drunken revelers and slips outside.
Compared to the near constant buzz of the festive hall, the rest of Maegor’s Holdfast is eerily quiet. The small gaggle of revelers she used for cover soon disperses, keen to find their beds, and soon enough, Sansa has the stone corridors mostly to herself.
Servants scurry back and forth - those coming from the hall bear piles of empty platters, the ones returning to it bring full ones. The kitchen staff must be working extra to keep up with the ravenous appetite of the King’s guests, Sansa thinks, dodging a harried-looking pair of maids that haul a roasted duck between them.
She stiffens as they go by, afraid they’ll raise some sort of alarm and that guards will rush in to force her back to the hall, but they barely lift their eyes in her direction, only huffing a little when she doesn’t get out of their way fast enough.
She rounds a corner and takes the stairs that lead to the lower levels two at a time, almost tripping over the hem of her dress. Sansa has no idea where she is going - as far from the Queen as she can seems good enough.
As she descends, she can’t shake the feeling she’s being followed, but whenever she twists around to check the way she came, Sansa sees only bare stone and quivering torches.
Right before Sansa snuck away, Margaery had met her gaze. The moment was fleeting, their connection so quick Sansa could easily believe to have imagined it, but sparks still linger inside her, stubborn embers even the cold draft of fear cannot put out.
The omega’s eyes had been dark, almost all pupil, and far too knowing.
Sansa makes it to the ground floor without incident, but stops just before reaching the holdfast main door, heart in her throat. Only one of the iron-reinforced gates is open, Ser Meryn standing guard nearby.
Of all the members of the Kingsguard, he is the one she fears the most.
Cowardice is Ser Boros’s main trait, while Ser Preston is a vain, frivolous man who makes an effort to be kind to Sansa - provided no one else is around to see.
But Ser Meryn is indifference, distilled into its most unsettling form. A statue with the gift of life. He never acknowledges Sansa, even when she tries to small talk him - and tried she has, doubling her efforts after he beat her at the King’s behest. He’s carved from ice, or perhaps stone, and his eyes are perennially glazed over like he is already dead inside - his body still working out of habit.
If ordered, he would kill her without sparing a thought - of that, she is certain.
“I wish to go to the Godswood,” she announces when she’s just a few paces from him, hoping that he won’t see through her deception. “To pray for the King’s happiness.” For him to choose a wife soon, rather.
Ser Meryn seems to look right through her, and not knowing what else to do, Sansa steps out into the night, his frigid presence lingering around her longer than it had a right to do.
She lied to him about her prayers - her invocations to the Gods are full of anger and revenge these days - but seeking refuge inside the Godswood may be a good idea.
King’s Landing is too far South for the gods of ice and snow her father told her about, but the Seven are strong here, and Sansa finds a measure of comfort under the grove’s trees.
The way from Maegor’s Holdfast is quite straightforward, but her encounters with the Queen and Ser Meryn must have upset her more than she thought, and Sansa gets turned around. She’s still within the castle’s gorgeous gardens, much of their beauty obscured by the moonless night, but in a part she’s never seen before.
Not quite knowing what else to do, Sansa keeps walking, losing herself further within the greenery. A return to the feast and to the wicked insults of the court is out of the question.
In the very heart of the garden, the royal greenskeepers have created what appears to be a hedge maze, and at the sight, Sansa is filled with a delight she hasn’t felt in months. Here and there, torches offer pools of flickering light, and the atmosphere inside the maze is almost magical.
Closing her eyes, Sansa inhales deeply of the fragrant air. The smells here are different, snow and moss replaced by warm soil and lavender, but for a time, it’s close enough to home.
“Child, what are you doing outside all alone at this hour?”
Sansa barely contains a scream, but it’s just Lady Olenna who found her here. Or perhaps followed.
A strong wind picks up, and the nearest torches almost gutter out. In their feeble glow, the one they call the Queen of Thorns seems like a shadowed ghoul with eyes sunk deep into the darkness, the corners of her mouth curled in a sneer. Dangerous and secretive. Demonic, like the she-devils Old Nan told her howled within the foulest winter squalls.
Then, the light returns and the illusion shatters.
“I was...walking.”
“Well, that’s obvious.” She could swear that Lady Olenna is rolling her eyes. “But you are too young for the sleeplessness that afflicts people as old as I am. Pycelle suggested I drink milk of the poppy before bed, but I cannot stand the repugnant taste. I suggested he drink it instead!”
“I could ask you the same thing, my Lady.” The woman’s eyes dilate in shock, but at the same time, she seems oddly… pleased by Sansa’s reaction. “Why you are walking here so late, instead of presiding over the feast, I mean.”
“My son began to sing, the big oaf,” Lady Olenna mutters curtly, as if that was reason enough.
Before a surprised Sansa can pull away, she’s threaded a frail arm under her own, prompting her to move forward.
“Walk with me for a while, dear. I forgot my cane and could use the help.”
Sansa knows she can’t refuse. In part, she doesn’t want to. Since the day they had arrived at the Red Keep, Lady Olenna and Margaery had been kind to her. Both invited her to tea numerous times, and once Margaery had learned how partial Sansa is to lemon cake, she had it served whenever they visited together. She could have easily hated Sansa, like the rest of them, or considered her a rival. Instead, she was welcomed - a long lost friend finally returned.
More than that, Margaery had pulled her into her inner circle, asking her to sit together while she and her ladies-in-waiting practiced their needlework and gossiped about the other noble houses. Sansa’s only friend at court had been Jeyne Poole, but Jeyne had gone missing the night her father was arrested, and Sansa hadn’t seen her since. The afternoons Sansa had spent with the Tyrells had been the closest to what her life had been before Lord Eddard’s folly.
Without Margaery’s and Olenna’s warm-heartedness, without the many laughs and jokes she’d shared with Elinor, Alla and Megga, she would have already gone insane.
“Tell me, Sansa.” As they near the center of the maze, Lady Olenna breaks the quiet. “What do you make of Joffrey? Is he a good King?”
The question makes her miss a step, and she has to reach out, hand grasping at a nearby hedge for balance. Thorns are hidden in the foliage and they bite the flesh of her palm, but Sansa is too unsettled by the question to feel pain.
“My Lady. I… I really don’t know.”
“No? But you were meant to marry him, were you not? You and Joffrey must have spent some time together, at the very least. What of his character? Is he gentle? Valiant?”
“He’s…” Sansa wants to lie, desperately so, but she cannot. Not to the only people that treated her like she still has worth. “He’s… horrible.” She tries to clamp her teeth around the word but it’s too late. Something inside her has broken and cannot be repaired. “He’s cruel and vindictive. He cut off my father’s head, after he’d promised to be merciful. He called that mercy. And then he took me to the rampants and made me look at it.”
“So the troubling rumors we heard are true. We also heard he had you beaten when your brother bested his Uncle at the Whispering Wood.”
Sansa opens her mouth to try and climb out of the hole that truth dug for her, then closes it without comment.
“It is a good thing, then, that I don’t intend for Margaery to marry him.”
They have come to the center of the maze, Sansa realizes with a start, and Lady Olenna turns to face her. There are no torches here, but high above their heads a sliver of moon is peeking through the clouds, allowing them a bit of waning light.
“Tell me, Sansa… have you ever thought of marrying someone other than the King?”
“I…” She swallows, aware she’s treading on dangerous ground. The Tyrells have been nice, but can she trust them? Can she trust anyone at all? “I would never be allowed. The Queen would not let me.”
But she might, under the right circumstances. WIth Robb dead and her other siblings scattered only the Gods knew where, any pup Sansa may sire would have a strong claim to the North.
“The Queen needn’t know about it until it’s done.” Lady Olenna seems unperturbed by her protests. “What would you say to marrying Margaery?”
“Margaery?” Sansa repeats stupidly.
“Yes, Margaery,” Lady Olenna parrots, with a touch of impatience. “Last time I checked, she was the only granddaughter I have. Although I wouldn’t put it past my son to have sown his seed in other fields when he was younger,” she adds as an afterthought.
“I…” Margaery?
Now that she thinks about it, there had been more than a few times when she’d joined Margaery for cake, during which it had just been the two of them. Her mother would never have permitted her to visit an unmarried omega without a chaperone, but Sansa had assumed each House felt different about the topic.
After all, the Tyrells were renowned for their extravagance just as much as they were for their wealth.
Now everything makes sense.
“It would be treason, my Lady. I couldn’t. I can’t! ” Her voice was close to breaking. “My brother was a traitor. My father-”
“Was an honorable man,” Lady Olenna cuts her off. “An honorable man who trusted the wrong people.”
The woman leads her toward another path, opposite the one they just emerged from.
“I won’t lie to you, Sansa. This proposal doesn’t come from pity, nor tenderness of heart. Well,” Lady Olenna smacks her lips loudly. “Not solely at least.”
“You want the North.” Sansa answers, too tired of politics and games to feel much anger. Too exhausted to coat what she now sees clearly in subterfuge and lies. “If I marry Margaery, you will have the North.”
Lady Olenna laughs,
“Ah, some of the rumors were wrong after all! They all paint you like a stupid, little bird, but I think they’re very wrong.”
Gods, how much she hates to be called that.
“Not me,” Lady Olenna corrects her. “You. You and my granddaughter. And then your children after you. I don’t know about you, Sansa, but to me, roses go better with wolves than with lions. Your Northmen would like this alliance better, too, I think.”
She could go home. Her breath catches in her throat. Eventually, Sansa would go home. And Margaery… She can’t deny she’s desired the omega from the first time that they met.
“The Queen won’t allow it. If your plan worked, the combined might of the banners we could call on… The Lannisters would never stand a chance.”
“The Queen won’t have a choice.” Deceiving sweetness drips from the old woman’s voice. The barbs are there, just barely hidden. “Tyrell forces outnumber the Lannister men in the city three to one right now, and most of our fleet is at anchor nearby. Already, we betrayed the memory of Renly. What’s a Queen to add to the pile, when we didn’t even pick the rightful King?”
“You could betray me,” Sansa whispers with a shiver.
“But that, child, would gain me nothing.”
Sansa finds it impossible to object to that logic.
“You see, Sansa, the Lannisters are the sunflowers of our little garden. Endlessly chasing the sun. But we Tyrells aren’t like that. We may not always look our best - have you seen that fat-headed fool I have for a son? - but we endure, do we not? The Iron Throne brought little luck to those that sat on it, but it’s so shiny, Mace can’t help himself. He is a simple man, my son, likes shiny things.” She shakes her head with a sigh, and in that moment, the weight of all her years seems to press down on her fragile shoulders. “No, Sansa. Sitting on the Iron Throne won’t make my House grow strong. But Margaery marrying a wolf, even a wounded one, just might. Of course, this is all a hypothetical. Unless you agree to it, of course.”
Sansa is very tempted to say yes. At least it would be over - one way or another.
“You would be enemies. If I accept and do what you suggest, you risk another war!”
“And if it came to that, what other allies would the Lannisters have? The Freys? Pah!” There’s a loud, hacking sound, and Lady Olenna spits phlegm on the wet grass. “The Freys can be bought again. Let’s see… Dorne?” Her cackle is like dry twigs rustiling together. “The only lion a Dornishman will like is a skinned one.”
They have come to the end of the hedge maze, somehow the same gap in the bushes Sansa slipped through on the way in. Maegor’s Holdfast looms in their path, blotting out the stars.
“No, child.” Lady Olenna reaches up to cup her face. Sansa cannot see her eyes, but her touch is kind. “The Lannisters need us. Cersei will fume and my son will offer more men, but secretly she’ll be relieved that Margaery turned out to be the whore that wagging tongues paint her as. She doesn’t like competition, our Queen - not one bit.”
Her eyes glitter darkly, and her next words take shape in the dark with the same power of a prophecy. “Then, at the end of this idiotic war, we’ll have wardship of the South and the North. The lion can keep its little, shiny throne if it so wishes, I suppose.”
She laughs again and tugs Sansa along by one sleeve. “Come now, we have more to discuss before the night is done.”
Lady Olenna’s personal guards stroll up to them, as if by happenstance, and fall in line behind them with a rattle of chainmail the moment they move toward the door.
Sansa walks a little faster, heart thumping in her chest. She could rebel and try to run, but what good would it do? The Tyrell men would stop her.
But, in the umpteenth twist of her night, the two stop at the foot of the stairs, guarding the way she and Olenna have come. Of Ser Meryn, there is no trace.
Maybe, just maybe, Sansa really has a choice.
*********
The way back into Maegor’s Holdfast isn’t as fraught with danger as Sansa had thought.
The corridors are even more deserted now than when she left, and the silence is almost absolute. The feast, then, must be over, everyone retired for the night at long last.
Every now and then, they glimpse movement at the end of a side corridor, and each time it happens, Lady Olenna draws to a halt. As much as the old woman insists she can do whatever she pleases, it’s clear she doesn’t want anyone to see them.
Servants talk, after all. And if they don’t, there’s always the hot iron and pincers to make them.
Luckily, the few still moving about seem eager to reach their beds just as much as the nobles were, and shuffle along, too tired to be aware of their surroundings.
They walk for what feels to Sansa like an entire age. She loses her bearings again, the corridors they travel through blending into a labyrinth of stone inside her mind. Hopefully, this time there won’t be any surprise encounters.
The part of the holdfast she finds herself in now is clearly uninhabited. No tapestries hang in the halls, and the walls look rougher here; older. Humidity weeps in rivulets down the uneven blocks, hewn from the same red stones as the rest of the Keep. The air is damp and cold, and water gathers on the floor, shining feebly in the torchlight. Adding to the feeling of neglect, some of the corridors that intersect the one they are following currently are pitch-black.
Whenever they have to cross into shadow, Sansa shivers.
“The court was much larger in Maegor’s time,” Lady Olenna explains, like she’s reading Sansa’s mind. “There were more nobles in the castle, and therefore more space was needed to house the respective retinues. The court, as it is now, needs a fraction of the space, but somehow, fifty times the gold to sustain itself.” Laughter follows her words, flat and unamused.
“The Queen should walk these same halls,” she continues when Sansa says nothing. “It would put her delusions of grandeur into perspective.”
They just went by one of the dark corridors, and at the mention of the Queen, Sansa can’t help but glance back. Conjured by her frightened mind, green eyes stare at her, baleful and full of hate, but when she blinks, they’re gone.
Just a trick of her mind.
“Here.”
Lady Olenna has stopped in front of a wall, no different than any other that Sansa can see. Before she can ask what she means, the noblewoman does something with one of the stone blocks, and the entire section of wall rotates in unsettling silence.
“Here, we must be as quiet as kitchen mice.” Lady Olenna lights a torch and gestures for Sansa to go first. “The walls are thick, but I hear that little birds often nest in these passages. None of them are as polite as you, child.”
Lord Varys’s spies. Sansa had heard about them, but the rumors must have been an exaggeration. Surely.
Still, once Lady Olenna joins her inside the passage, the wall swinging back to place behind them, she follows as silently as she can.
There is barely enough room for them to squeeze by, and at times, she has to duck her head to avoid banging it against the low ceiling. The passage angles upward, and the higher they climb, the warmer the air gets.
After a little while, Lady Olenna’s cautionary words start to make more sense. They can hear people while they move - guards reporting to one another in their watches, lords and ladies deep in conversation.
No wonder Lord Varys seems privy to all of the court’s secrets. It seems that - in his case - the rumors are true.
Just when Sansa is starting to worry that they will be forever trapped inside the network of hidden passages, they come to their destination.
This time, the wall in front of them collapses back before Lady Olenna touches it. On the other side, someone was on the lookout for them - clearly.
None other than Margaery herself, Sansa discovers as she twists through the narrow opening. The passage led them straight to the omega’s rooms.
Here, the light is stronger, and Sansa has to shield her eyes initially, the sudden brightness making her head hurt. When she is finally able to see again, she finds Margaery and Olenna watching her intently.
“It’s obvious you don’t believe that Margaery wants this.” Lady Olenna shares a small smile with her granddaughter, and the mischief twinkling inside her deep-set eyes lifts several years off her face. “Perhaps you will believe her if she tells you herself.”
“It’s true, Sansa.” Stepping forward, Margaery takes her hands, and Sansa can’t remember how to breathe. “I didn’t know what I expected upon meeting you. The stories I’d heard were...” She pauses and bites her lip. It’s the prettiest thing Sansa has ever seen.
“Awful. They were awful stories. So terrible, in fact, we should have known not to believe them,” Olenna interjects, curtly. “Get on with it, Margaery, we don’t have all night.”
“Grandmother! I’m trying!” Margaery sounds scandalized, but her eyes are full of fondness. “Anyway. Yes, awful stories. I confess that when I first invited you to tea, I had anticipated a she-wolf would show up. They painted you as spiteful and foul-tempered. Bitter and jealous. But, after spending that first afternoon with you, I knew how wrong they were.”
Margaery lifts a hand to Sansa’s cheek, stroking softly. “That they would slander you on purpose infuriated me so, so much! But there wasn’t much that I could do. Not openly, at least. So I kept inviting you to tea.” She pulls Sansa toward the fireplace where three chairs have been placed to face the flames. Lady Olenna has already situated herself in one, and is sipping tea, her eyes never leaving Sansa.
Margaery pours them both a cup before continuing.
“You must understand, Joffrey isn’t the first man Father tried to make me marry. Renly…”
“Got a bit further with that one,” Olenna interrupts again, earning herself a scowl. She doesn’t seem to notice it, or perhaps she doesn’t care. “Too bad my oafish son didn’t put Loras in bed with him instead of you.”
“Grandmother.” Margaery’s pupils blaze, and she goes very, very still. “I don’t think Sansa cares to hear more of that. Besides, we’re short on time, remember?”
“We truly are.”
They all turn to the window and watch the night writhe against the stained glass.
“Renly was kind, but disinterested. And he wasn’t the first either.” Lady Olenna opens her mouth again, but is silenced with a look. “Lesser Lords showed interest. Some Father dismissed, some others were allowed to court me, but none of them…” Margaery sighs and drinks of her tea until only bits of leaf are left, sticking to the porcelain. “I’ve never met an alpha such as you, Sansa. You are kind, always, and witty. Smart, too, even though nobody gives you credit for that.”
“I don’t know, my Lady,” Sansa speaks for the first time since coming to these rooms. Her voice is barely above a croak. “Mostly, I’ve just been afraid.”
“A shame.” Lady Olenna brushes a loose strand of hair from her brow, and Sansa drops her gaze, afraid to read pity in the woman’s face. But when she dares look up again, there’s only sadness. “And not your fault at all, child. Men thrice your size would have been afraid in your spot.”
“And that brings us to Joffrey.” Margaery sets her cup down with a grimace. “As Grandmother may have told you, I have no intention of marrying him. Any doubts I may have had were dispelled when I saw how poorly he behaved toward you at the feast. Do you know what he told me as we danced? He said he wasn’t sure he wanted to marry ‘spoiled goods’ - that’s how he put it - but that his mother insisted he get to know me. I do need your Father’s men after all. ” Margaery sneers in a passable imitation of the King. “He suggested that even if he ended up choosing someone else, he may still visit my bedchamber one night. Was his Gods-given right, he said.”
By the end of the omega’s tirade, Sansa is quivering with rage. Her lips have curled to expose a flash of teeth, and a near constant rumble vibrates between her ribs. When she realizes what she is doing, she clamps a hand over her mouth, utterly shocked.
She expects to be scorned or chased out of the room, but Margaery is smiling in delight at her reaction.
“What did I tell you Grandmother? Isn’t she worthy?” Something warm swims beneath the surface of Margaery’s eyes. Something Sansa has no name for, but that ties knots into her stomach.
“Certainly more than those my stupid son picked for you. Truly, if a woman wants a thing to be well done, she must take it into her own hands.”
“I want this. You.” All of a sudden, it’s Margaery who looks afraid. “Like I’ve never wanted another before. Everything else was duty, but this…”
“You children can leave love confessions for later,” Lady Olenna quips, steering the conversation back to the practical. “If Sansa accepts, you both need to drink this and consummate before dawn.”
She points to a vial on the tea tray. The vessel is of expensive quality, the glass thick and etched with roses. A murky liquid swirls inside it. The consistency reminds Sansa of honey, even though the color is different.
“It is a potent drug from the Free Cities,” Margaery explains when Sansa raises an eyebrow in question. “Made to free the willing of their… inhibitions.”
“Meant to send you into rut and Margaery into early heat.” Olenna cuts right to the chase. “If you mate and we leave the city first thing in the morning, there is nothing that the Queen or my son can do.” Her tone gentles. “You will be married as soon as we reach Highgarden. It’s all arranged.”
“But...” Sansa licks her lips. Her cock is stiffening, rising against the fabric of her dress. At this rate, she won’t need the potion to see things through. “How would you get me out of King’s Landing? I’m sure Cersei has every way out watched.”
“She does. That is why we’ll sneak you out right under her nose.” Lady Olenna curves her back and sighs. “I miss the comfort of my own home, and I’ve gotten my fill of court and its fools.”
“What Grandmother means to say is that she let slip to Father she may leave for the Reach any day. Nobody will think it strange if she follows through so suddenly. Grandmother is famous for being unpredictable.”
“I’m nothing of the sort. I’m just an old, tired woman with aching bones. Well? What say you, Sansa? I’ve seen how you look at my granddaughter, when you think no one else is watching.” Sansa squirms and Olenna puts the vial into her hand, letting her examine it. “Will you do this?”
“Yes, I-” As every emotion she’s ever felt when in Margaery’s company comes to the fore, Sansa’s voice breaks a little. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll leave you two to it.” Lady Olenna stands, slowly making her way to the secret passage. “Remember, Margaery, be in the yard before sunrise.”
With those parting words she’s gone, vanished behind the wall.
*********
“I can drink first, if you’d like.”
“No.” Before she can change her mind, Sansa unstoppers the vial. She swallows half of it down, thinking that it could be a poison only after she’s ingested her dose. But, if the Tyrells wanted her dead, there are less elaborate ways than this, surely?
If it is a poison, it doesn’t taste like one. The flavor is delicate, a bit sweet, and blossoms on her tongue like a garden in the midst of summer. Margaery drinks the rest before she tosses the vial into the fire.
“And now?”
“We wait.” Sitting down on the bed, Margaery pats the empty spot next to her. Sansa follows hesitantly. “It shouldn’t be too long, according to Maester Lomys.”
They sit side by side in silence. Sansa feels on edge, hyper-aware. She can’t stop herself from scenting Margaery - the omega’s warm scent is intoxicating.
“Lady Margaery, I must ask - the times I visited for tea and we were alone, was it on purpose?”
“Yes, but please do away with titles… Sansa.” Margaery has taken her hand again and is stroking her thumb across Sansa’s knuckles. “The more I got to know you, the more I realized I didn’t want to share your company with the others.” Warmth is spreading from her hand to the rest of her, and Sansa presses just a little closer.
When Margaery lifts her hand to her mouth, kissing the back of it softly, she fails to suppress a moan.
“I was close to kissing you many times.” The omega’s eyes are dark and hungry. “Would you like if I did that now?”
“Yes.”
The warmth has become a fire raging along her bones. Sansa knows it’s not the potion - not entirely.
Lightning-quick, Margaery pushes her down and straddles her.
The kiss is deep and biting, filled with all the want they had accumulated in months of repressed pining. The way Margaery searches her mouth, hungry and thorough, hints that she’s truly been desiring her as badly as Sansa has.
After their lips have made contact, the rest becomes a hazy dream.
They’re both still wearing the elaborate clothes they had at the feast, which is frustrating, at least for Sansa. She fights with the rows of small buttons that climb Margaery’s right side, then her temper flashes, causing her to rip into the fabric with both hands.
Margaery’s hands are far more dexterous than hers, and Sansa’s clothing falls away in little time and even smaller effort.
Now completely naked, she is pushed down again, Margaery climbing back on top before she can try to reverse their positions.
She isn’t keen to do so anyhow. The heat of the omega’s cunt is bliss against her cock, and when Margaery grinds down, Sansa can feel just how wet the other is.
Bodies pressed together, they kiss again and gasp, touching and stroking and grinding until Sansa is burning with need.
“What Grandmother said before is true.” Margaery peppers small kisses along her jawline, the dip of her throat. “I’m not untouched.” The same lurking fear Sansa detected when they sat in front of the fire returns, and she tips the omega onto her back, so that she can shelter her with her body and rest their foreheads together.
“Do you think I care? All I want is to be yours.” She pushes down with her pelvis and when the tip of her cock brushes against Margaery’s clit, they both whimper. “And that you are mine.” She lays kisses on Margaery’s collarbone, her sweat-slicked breasts. Nips a little.
“I am! Gods- I-”
Margaery raises her hips invitingly, and unable to resist her call, Sansa moves forward. Slips inside her.
Things are very hard to track after that.
All she is aware of is the marvelous heat surrounding her, rippling in time with each deep thrust. Remotely, she knows that Margaery is moaning under her, telling her to go faster, harder with a coarse mouth she would have never expected from a lady.
For all of Olenna’s words about Renly, Margaery is tight . Tight enough that Sansa has to snap her hips roughly to reach as deep as she wants to. As deep as she knows Margaery so desperately needs.
Soon enough, the familiar pain that accompanies the swelling of her knot makes itself known. This isn’t her first rut, but aside from a few times when it had caught her unaware, Sansa always had one of Maester Luwin’s horrid brews at hand, sheltering her from the worst of it.
She likes this way of dealing with her need much, much better.
“Yes!” Margaery is clawing at her back in encouragement. Her nails leave red marks on Sansa’s pale flesh, and she shudders with pleasure. “Knot me, Sansa. Fill me with your pups!”
Her words invoke something in the dying light of the fire. Something primal, and as ancient as a weirwood tree. Underneath her, Margaery blooms open, and Sansa’s knot fits inside her as if she were made for it. Sansa had expected more resistance; instead she falls forward, and the surprise has her spill into Margaery’s womb a moment later. She lurches forward and clamps her eager mouth to the omega’s leaping pulse. The primeval force that woke within her demands the mating, and Sansa has no intention to resist. Her teeth pierce the powder-soft skin of Margaery’s throat, and a drop of blood falls on her tongue.
She comes in a flood that has no end, and Margaery follows, clenching and screaming and fisting at the sheets. A bruise is forming where Sansa bit, and she laps at it, enjoying the way Margaery bucks against her with each pass of her tongue.
The omega’s small teeth sink at her throat in return, and their sting is the last thing Sansa feels as her body convulses into oblivion.
*********
By the time they exit the Red Keep, the sky is grey at the edges.
Before they left the rooms assigned to the Tyrells, Margaery had helped Sansa change into a different set of clothes than those she’d worn at the feast. A servant’s livery, simpler than anything Sansa had ever worn, yet more elaborate than what a maid would ever wear in the North. The residual scent of their mating is disguised by pouches full of crushed lavender sewn into their cloaks.
Now, both of them garbed in teal and gold, and with deep hoods shadowing their faces, they easily blend in with the steady stream of servants that are gathering around Lady Olenna’s ornate coach.
The yard is a hive of activity, and they have to pick their way with care to avoid being trampled. Grooms dash in and out of the nearby stable carrying all manner of equipment; spare harnesses and saddles, extra blankets for the horses, an extra set of spurs for a dour-looking Tyrell officer. A thousand other things Sansa has no name for - unlike Arya, she’d never enjoyed riding much. As she follows Margaery to where the rest of Lady Olenna’s personal maids are waiting, Sansa has time to take the rest in.
The group readying to leave the city is a sizeable one. Aside from Lady Olenna’s personal guard, there are fifty or so mounted lancers and a number of empty carts which Mace’s men had used to bring supplies to the beleaguered city. A lot of the food had been served at the feast the night before, but Sansa’s heard the servants speak of Lady Margaery’s compassion. Sacks of grains and other goods were distributed on all the main squares, and already, she has supplanted Cersei in the hearts of commoners.
Not that it was such a hard task.
Sansa lifts her eyes to the sky, noting how she can now see details that were hidden by darkness moments ago. A flash of gold catches her attention - atop the ramparts, a lone guard is pacing slowly, torch in hand, his crimson tabard trimmed in gold clearly illuminated by the whipping flame.
At the sight, Sansa stiffens and grabs Margaery’s wrist, panic rising within her.
“Servants are invisible to nobles for the most part,” Margaery murmurs, her voice pitched low. “If they remember to play the part.”
Sansa nods once in understanding, and tearing her gaze away from the Lannister guard, lowers her eyes to the ground. Even though she is surrounded on all sides by a wall of Tyrell bannermen, she keeps her head down, hands clasped meekly at her waist, waiting for the guard’s inevitable cry of alarm.
Lady Olenna comes and goes as she pleases, or so Margaery told her while laying out the plan for her escape hours before.
“She’s a stubborn one, Grandmother.” They had been entwined in bed, enjoying a few moments of peace before confronting the most dangerous part of Margaery’s plan. The omega was carefully prodding at the fading bruises Ser Meryn’s beating had left on Sansa’s skin with a stormy expression that promised retribution. “The Queen would never dare question the whereabouts of an equal, nor try to stop her. Not when she needs Father’s lances so badly.” Sansa had frowned, not entirely convinced, but then Margaery began to kiss the fresh mating bite on her throat, a hand lazily curling around Sansa’s cock and her worries were easily forgotten.
Margaery touches her arm briefly, bringing her out of the memory, and they join the rest of Lady Olenna’s maids who are being helped onto one of the carts where two rows of benches have been nailed for seating. The soldier assisting them – the rose emblazoned on his armband identifying him as a captain – pulls Sansa into an unexpected hug.
Confused, she peers inside his hood, only recognizing him after he addresses her.
“Sister.” Ser Loras’s cheek is scratchy with the beginnings of a beard against her own. “Welcome home.”
“I’m-“ Not your sister, she wants to say. Instead, words that were forced into her by cruel hands spill out. “A traitor,” she whispers. “A fraud.”
The terror she’d forgotten with Margaery’s body pressing her into the bed returns tenfold, and she starts shaking. To an onlooker, they would look like what they are dressed as - a soldier and a servant in a tryst - but for Sansa, each of the shadows crowding the courtyard is hiding an enemy.
Loras’s arms tighten around her momentarily, and the steel plates of his armor press into her skin. “You’re family. Her mate. Her wife, soon.” He glances toward Margaery, who has climbed onto the cart without help, and is giving them impatient looks. “This was all her idea, you know. She spoke of nothing else but you for weeks. Grandmother and I merely helped.”
Sansa stares, not quite knowing what to say. Loras speaks the truth – after the night she just had, she knows it – still, she can scarcely believe any of this is really happening. He takes her silence for assent, and lifts her up into the cart’s bed by her waist. She finds a seat next to Margaery, and a moment later, the column rolls slowly into motion.
When they come within sight of the main city gates, a flash of gold catches Sansa’s attention. A good number of Lannister soldiers are guarding the entrance, many more than would be present in time of peace. She tenses again, but their commanding officer - a lanky fellow with red enamel on his breastplate - exchanges a bored word with a now helmed Ser Loras and lets them through.
Just like that, they are out of the city. Sansa relaxes a little, and when the fragrance of roses in bloom wafts to her nose, gives Margaery a tight smile.
As the sun is riding across the sky, Sansa twists around on the bench to look back the way they came. The early morning air is hazy with the dust of their passage, but she can still make out the city in the distance. From afar, its walls and the keep perched above its shops and houses are no bigger than childrens toys, and somehow, the new perspective makes her think that she really can leave the past behind.
Then the road curves gently away, and as their caravan winds around a low hill like a snake of wood and glittering metal, King’s Landing is hidden from view.
*********
A week of travel from King’s Landing, Sansa receives a note.
That night, she and Margaery are serving Lady Olenna’s dinner to keep with their disguise when Loras ducks into his Grandmother’s tent, an unopened message clutched in his gloved hand.
“For Sansa.,” he says breathlessly, offering her the parchment. She stares at him like he’s handing her a viper.
“Well? Open it, child. Paper cannot bite you,” Lady Olenna urges.
With shaking fingers, Sansa breaks the wax seal.
‘Some live in cages of their own making for an entire life.’ The hand is spidery, almost unreadable. ‘I’m glad to see you fly free. - V.’
Sansa crumples the note in her fist and throws it in the fire.
Dark wings bring gentle words sometimes.
*********
She has lived in Highgarden for about two weeks, and is breaking fast with Margaery and Lady Olenna when the old woman pauses, a warm bite of apple pie halfway to her mouth. Sharp eyes meet hers, the mind behind them wide awake despite the early hour.
“Do you know what people always forget about roses, dear child?”
Lady Olenna’s tone is smug, and Sansa thinks she knows what the matriarch is hinting at. Bad habits are hard to break, however, and - although everyone here treats her with kindness and respect - she still has a hard time speaking her mind.
Margaery’s hand squeezes her thigh under the table, gentle and discreet.
“Thorns!” Lady Olenna chuckles and bites into her food with the relish of someone that ought to be much younger than she is. “They forget about the thorns!”
Margaery is warm at her side. Reassuring. Sansa gathers what courage Cersei didn’t rip to shreds and tries her hand at sarcasm.
“Just as they forget that wolves, even tame ones, aren’t dogs.”
As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she slouches a little, shoulders curved forward to protect her heart for the inevitable blow. The sting of the mating bite adorning her throat feels real enough, but Sansa can’t shake the fear that this is all a dream.
She’ll wake up in King’s Landing - and back inside her nightmare.
But Lady Olenna is banging her fist on the table and laughing uproariously enough that her twin guards - Arryk and Erryk - stick their heads inside the room to see what’s going on. Margaery smiles at her with pride and fondness, and her fears lifting like morning fog, Sansa joins in until giggles have a firm hold on all three of them.
Perhaps - she thinks as she wipes tears of mirth from the corners of her eyes - perhaps she is a frightened little bird no longer.