Chapter Text
“Oh, Miss Tyrell! Miss Tyrell!”
Margaery just about groans hearing the fussy voice bustling out of the back entrance of the petrol station. A brief glance to the store window, finds Sansa still somewhere in the middle of the queue. Too far back to come to her rescue any time soon.
The woman waves rushing towards her in slapping slippers, as if they were on a busy intersection in the middle of Kings Landing and Margaery might miss her in the busy ado.
Val’s a little out of breath coming to a halt next to the car. “I’m sorry, Miss Tyrell, but you’ll have to put that out. Smoking is strictly prohibited on these premises.”
Margaery puffs out smoke without meeting the eyes twinkling down at her, and stubs the cigarette out in the centre console. The grave concern in the woman’s voice is undue. They’re a good twenty metres from the petrol pumps – there’s an overflowing ashtray at the door Val hurried out of. But Margaery’s learned to pick her battles, and this isn’t one worth taking on.
“Thank you.” Val gives a breathy chuckle, skimming a hand over the carefully set honey-blonde perm, that tops her head like a stiff helmet. “Wouldn’t want to prove those rumours true, right?”
Margaery looks at her flatly.
The woman misinterprets her silence on purpose and gives another light laugh. “You know, those that claim you’re out to set fire to our little world.”
“Of course not,” Margaery gives back, mustering a tight smile.
Her attempt to roll up the window, comes cut short by Val bracing a hand on the door.
“Not that we couldn’t use a little warm up. Hasn’t this weather been positively gruesome? They just said on the radio, that it’s the coldest winter in years. I can hardly imagine what it must be for someone like yourself, not used to it. How are you holding up in this dire cold? I’ve gotta say, winter seems to become you.”
The first time Margaery had a conversation with Val –a run-in at the grocery store– she regarded the woman as nice enough, if a little self-absorbed. Now she knows better. Answering her own questions, is more than just a lack of interest or presumption. Every word not actively objected, will be passed on as confirmed fact to the next person crossing Val’s path.
The occasions where she waits for an answer, are no less of a peril.
Margaery strives for a polite expression. “I’m fine.”
“That’s good to hear.” Her smile turns more venomous. “And our dear Sansa? I’ve been meaning to check in on her. See how she’s doing.”
Margaery silent scoff forms in a cloud; the clueless act not fooling her in the slightest. There’s not even a small chance she hasn’t seen her yet, or let either of them out of her sight since they pulled up here.
“Gilly said she’s good?” Val probes on. “I honestly find that hard to imagine. After, well, everything.”
Margaery says nothing, stealing another look to the small gas station shop, where Sansa is next in queue.
The silence doesn’t faze Val in the slightest. “Between you and I? I’ve just been saying to Dalla – you know my sister, right? Anyway,” she leans a forearm down on the door, lowering her voice, “I told her, that people shouldn’t judge Sansa so harshly. After all, no one ever truly knows for those things that go on inside a marriage. Jon is a stand-up guy, of course, but if Sansa was unhappy, who are we to say she wasn’t?”
Pale grey eyes land on Sansa, now arrived at the till, in ostentatious inattention.
“If you ask me, one really has to admire her courage. I don’t know a single woman, who hasn’t considered just packing her bags and running away from all those burdens of family life. Only, most women are naturally too gentle-minded to put themselves first like that.”
The badly veiled jab would deserve a sniping response, but Margaery knows from the times Val all but chased her through the supermarket, that she’ll spin as much as an “okay” into a horrendous tale about Sansa.
“I just hope she’s doing okay. And the kids, of course. They are alright, aren’t they? Dalla brought some beef stew to Jon the other day and said Alis is turning into quite the little homemaker. Such a good sense of responsibility that girl. At that age, nonetheless. I think Jon really knows what he has in her.”
Margaery bites the inside of her cheeks, to keep herself from snapping at her to bloody leave the kids out of her malicious gossip. But that won’t do anyone good. Least of all the kids.
“Though, I told Jon, quite bluntly, he really must watch out for her. She looked so terribly thin, last time I saw her. Not that I’m surprised. Poor girl. It has to be such a difficult adjustment, not having her mom around anymore. And then that—”
The abrupt chime of bells latched to the store door, cuts Val off, and has her straighten her back, as Sansa strides towards them.
“Now, speak of the devil,” she says, shoving a hand into the pocket of her apron dress. “Sansa. My, it’s so good to see you.”
Sansa greets her with nothing but a curt nod.
“I was just telling Margaery here, how I’ve been meaning to come see you in forever. I’ve just been so busy.” She sighs wearily. “You know how it is.”
Her expression adds a silent sneering, Or used to, anyway. Eyes follow Sansa as she drops in the passenger seat, and, like a bloody bloodhound, dart promptly to bags on the back seat. “Where are you two off to, anyway?”
Sansa’s features are set too tight to manage any kind of courtesy. “Nowhere.”
And, yeah, Margaery gathered that much from the look on her face.
“Coming from somewhere, then?”
“It’s the kids’ laundry. Jon couldn’t work the washer if his life depended on it.” She glares up at Val through a pinched smile. “You know how it is.” The door on Sansa’s side slams shut, and she turns to Margaery. “It’s freezing. Would you mind closing the window?”
Margaery doesn’t need to be told twice. Unmindful of the woman braced on the door, she starts to roll up the window, forcing her to retract. She’s got it halfway up, her free hand turning the key in the ignition, when the same ugly clunking noise that brought them here, rumbles into the silence.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Val comments. “You should probably ask Jarl to take a look.”
Sansa’s hands clench over her purse and Margaery musters a last tight smile. “I will, thanks.”
Without another word of greeting she brings her foot down on the gas; only allowing her shoulders to drop, when the sneering smile looking after them, at last disappears in the rearview mirror.
Occasions like this never fail to remind Margaery why she never stuck in one place for too long. Travelling comes with the privilege of anonymity – that’s nothing but a faint, long forgotten notion here.
The irony is, that all the gossip, all the subtle and not so subtle whispers following them, are based on nothing more than the unspeakable audacity, in which Sansa dared to leave a good, hardworking man and take his kids from him. And of course the nerve of that southern women’s libber, who infected her with all those subversive ideas in the first place.
That they’re a couple hasn’t reached anyone’s radar, and Margaery’s bound and determined to keep it that way.
Anyone finding out, would have them quickly long for a time when the town gossips asking noisy questions were their biggest concern.
Out on the ice-sheathed main road, Sansa’s grip on her purse loosens for the sake of lighting herself a cigarette. “Jarl said to come by tomorrow. He’ll squeeze us in after lunch.”
“Really? That doesn’t sound too bad.” It’s honestly more than she dared to hope for – getting the car fixed on a Friday evening was always a long shot.
Sansa sinks lower in her seat, staring straight ahead. “Except there’s almost no point in going tomorrow, is there?”
Probably not. “Let’s see. Maybe it’s a quick fix. If we get going before three, we might just make it.”
“The ferry runs only on mornings on Saturday.”
“We could always spend the night in Eastwatch.” Margaery shoots her a smile. “A bit of dancing, a few drinks?”
The prospect doesn’t lighten Sansa’s mood. “And Skagos?”
“We can always do a daytrip on Sunday.”
That’ll rob her of the day-red, she’s been hoping to catch, she considers, accepting the cigarette from Sansa. But that’s a small sacrifice as long as they still get there. They’re long overdue for a getaway.
Sansa angles herself to her. “What if we drove tonight anyway? We could find a mechanic in Eastwatch and pick the car up Sunday.”
Shifting gears, Margaery lets the clunking of the engine speak for itself. “I don’t think we’ll make it that far.”
East Watch is a good three hundred kilometres distance. The road isn’t frequented nearly enough to take their chances.
“Or let’s drive by the station?” Sansa suggests, accepting the cigarette back. “There might be a train.”
Margaery touches her leg, endeared by the unwillingness to accept defeat. But the only train to Eastwatch runs Thursday and Sansa very well knows it. “It’s fine, love. Let’s just go home.”
Sansa drops back with a heavy sigh. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I beg to differ. I’m the one who’s cursed, not you.”
Margaery smiles, squeezing her leg. The curse, restricting Sansa’s existence to the town borders of Queenscrown, is a jest they contrived, cuddled up in bed, after their second attempt at a getaway fell through.
It’s gone a little tinged since.
Since January, they made five attempts to get out of town for the weekend. The first time, a week into the new year, they’d set out to go to Shadow Tower, when Sansa’s doctor voiced concern about a developing incisional hernia and ordered bedrest. In late January, Alis dropped in after a bad fight with Jon and ended their endeavour amidst packing. Two weeks later –Valentine’s Day– they’d cancelled a trip to the Grey Cliffs, because the owner of a flat they were interested in could only see them Saturday. Another fortnight later, babysitting Gilly’s youngest –Margene– when the rest of the Tarlys were down with a stomach bug, came rewarded with Margaery catching that very bug from her goddaughter.
Today started out promising. They made it a good thirty minutes north on the King’s Road, stupidly excited to finally do this, when the engine control light and that ugly clunking noise forced them to turn around.
And this time, Margaery’s got no one to blame but herself. The warning lamp has been on and off for a while and she ignored it just as long.
“Look,” Margaery says, pulling into the assigned parking spot in front of their building. “Let’s just bring by the car tomorrow. With some luck he’ll have it running by the afternoon. And if not, we’ll simply go next weekend.”
“Simply. Right.”
Fine. Simply isn’t quite cutting it. In the arrangement where the kids alternate weekends between them and Jon, Jon’s stubbornly rigid when it comes to sticking to the agreed-upon times. Not that Margaery gets why. One would think he’d appreciate more time with his kids. Besides, it’s not like Alis and Robb are actively keeping him from anything. Producing a few decent meals is all that’s different, and half the time he dumps that on Alis or simply takes the kids to the pub.
“Or the weekend after.”
“That’s Robb’s birthday.”
Margaery swallows the objection, that he isn’t particular keen to celebrate the –in his words– “anniversary of the day everyone started lying to him”. That won’t make her case here.
A wind gust, as they get out of the car, prevents Margaery from tangling herself in further consolations. It’s easier to offer those, when she’s able to affirm them with a comforting touch anyway.
In public touching is off limits. In public, they hardly talk, hardly share a glance; walk next to each other like two strangers who just accidentally happen to be walking the same way. In public, they’re always at an armlength’s distance. One they only ever truly surrender, in the privacy of their home – if the kids aren’t home, that is.
Bags dropped on top the row of shoes that have become a permanent fixture in their corridor, Margaery wraps Sansa up in her arms.
“Tell you what,” she says, stroking a kiss to her lips. “Let’s just cozy up here. We’ll crack open a bottle of red” —Sansa’s cap comes off in a light tug, and Margaery combs through hair, that still feels a little foreign in the new shorter cut and bouncy blow out— “and treat ourselves to a nice hot bath.” A step forward presses Sansa up to the closest wall. “If we open the window and turn off the lights, we can pretend we’re soaking in those hot springs in Skagos.”
Sansa sags back, holding onto her waist without much vigour. “Sure.”
“I’m trying here, love.”
“I’m disappointed. I get to be disappointed.”
“And you think I’m not?”
“Other than me, you’ve actually left town.”
Margaery gives a slight lip press, working the buttons of Sansa’s coat.
She did, sure. Only neither the job at Long Lake in January, nor her stay in Sentinel Stand capturing the old ruin, truly qualify. On both occasions, the incitement to get out of town, to be working, barely lasted half a day. She cut her stay short both times too. After all, why spent an additional night in some run-down accommodation, when she could sleep in her own bed, kept warm by her most gorgeous girlfriend?
Years ago, when Arianne asked her that very question, Margaery had a long list of reasons.
Folding the sides of Sansa’s coat back, Margaery presses flush. “That hardly counts,” she mumbles, cuddling against her, fingers pulling on Sansa’s turtleneck. “Given my plans for our getaway are a whole lot different.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Really, if you think about it—” She interrupts her musing for another lingering kiss to the sensitive skin over her pulse point; Sansa’s soft exhale and a slight tilt of her head, giving away that she’s on a good path to reconcile her with staying in. “—it’s just a waste of money and gas, going anywhere, when all we’d do is roll around in bed anyway.”
“That’s not all we would do.”
“No, I promise you it is.”
A swift tug on the zipper opens Margaery’s own coat, and Sansa’s hands are right there, shoving the heavy fabric off her shoulders. “I have no doubt you’d try,” she quips, the motion of unwrapping Margaery’s scarf stumbling briefly when lips tug on her bottom lip and a leg flexes up between her thighs.
“That’s sweet,” Margaery coos, cold palms smoothing over Sansa’s stomach, leaving her gasping into an anew kiss. “Thinking you can resist me.”
“Sex isn’t as much of a selling point as it once was.”
Margaery leans back, her hips leaving Sansa pinned in place. “I beg your pardon?”
Sansa shrugs coyly, fingertips brushing the collar of Margaery’s sweater. “If you can have something every night...”
“That’s good to know.” Clicking her tongue, Margaery peels away. “Then I might as well have the bathtub to myself.”
“Nice try.”
Sansa catches her wrist, pulling her close for a kiss that leaves no more doubt about her enthusiasm.
They stumble down the hall, a mess of giggles and kisses. Hands work their way further up beneath Sansa’s sweater, savouring how every small, aimed touch turns kisses greedier.
Sex might no longer be the rushed, impatient entity, trying to squeeze most out of every second, it once was, but as far as Margaery’s concerned that hasn’t diminished her longing for Sansa in the slightest. If anything, it’s grown stronger.
There’s the most obvious root of not having the place to themselves a whole lot. When the kids are around, they stifle their physical affections to a minimum. That –the constant proximity, smiles, incidental brushes of hands, an accumulation of moments that would render a kiss– will, more often than not, discharge the second their bedroom door shuts behind them.
Then there are those times when they do have the place to themselves, and make up for all that’s normally off limits – making out in the kitchen, neck kisses while teeth brushing, feeling each other up watching TV.
But it goes beyond that.
Being together every day, sleeping in the same bed every night, used to be a rare, if not unthinkable privilege, and now that it’s their new normal, Margaery can’t get enough of it.
It’s like entering a room that’s recently been rearranged and re-decorated, that will spark joy every time you set foot in there. Margaery adores having Sansa all to herself.
The metaphorical room, this life they build for themselves never stays the same either. There are new things to discover still, new things to learn.
New things to aggravate and frustrate her too.
There are days in this new normal that are harder than anything she’s ever experienced. This collision of lives so inherently different from each other, doesn’t always go smoothly. Things chafe every so often.
The day when they’ll finally make it out of town and take their first trip together, will undoubtedly come with its challenges too. And Margaery, in all honesty, can’t wait; feels parched for every new thing there is yet to discover about Sansa.
Maybe, most likely, there will come a day, when that all ebbs down –the excitement, the longing, the discoveries– but for now, standing here, bare back pressed against the bathroom door, lips barely granting her seconds to breathe, Margaery thinks that’s in a distant, distant future.
She pushes Sansa’s sweater up, rubbing flesh as she goes, desperate for her warmth, to feel all that soft skin against her. It’s been a cold couple of months, and being with Sansa is the only thing that will come close to mend that.
She sighs, when at last the fabric barrier is gone; Sansa’s flushed body a wonderful contrast to the cool door in her back.
“It’ll take a while for that bathtub to fill up,” Sansa muses, hands cradling the sides of her chest.
Margaery smooths over the length of her spine, fingertips dipping into the back of Sansa’s pants. “True.”
“How about I get that started, and you slip under the covers to keep warm?” Lips stroke over hers, her tongue brushing forward in a teasing lick. “I’ll join you in just a second.”
Margaery knows they’re setting themselves up for water damage, but her brain is no longer at a capacity to deny her anything. “Just hurry up,” she says, squeezing Sansa’s ass. “Otherwise, I’ll have to start without you.”
Sansa peels away with a kiss, hurrying into the bathroom, and Margaery lingers in the doorframe another moment, relishing the sight of her topless in those high waisted jeans. There’s an artsy photograph in that scene somewhere, Sansa, in their rather bourgeois little bathroom, with the neatly lined up tooth mugs that match the rug, looking like sin.
Priorities, though – kinky photographs can wait.
Twisting around, determined to get that headstart, Margaery’s libidinous endeavour curtails harshly, opening the bedroom door.
A startled yelp escapes her, and she slams the door back shut – with such force, a photograph on the wall comes crooked.
Sansa sticks her head out of the bathroom, looking at her puzzled.
Margaery grants her no time to ask questions, hurriedly picks up discarded sweaters, tossing Sansa’s at her. “Get dressed. Quickly.”
“What? Why?”
“Robb’s home.”
“What?”
Sweater donned, Margaery pulls her hair out of the collar. “Get. Dressed.”
“Why is he—”
Sweater still in hand, Sansa’s lips fall open, when rustling and voices sound from the bedroom. Margaery snatches the turtleneck back from Sansa, fumbling to find the neck opening.
The unmistakeable pitch of a girl snaps her gaze back to Margaery. “Who is that?”
Margaery unceremoniously shoves the sweater over her head and puffs out her cheeks. “Who do you think?”
Sansa’s jaw goes slack.
“Sansa.”
The hands trying to hold her back, come shrugged off. Sansa punches arms into sleeves and barges into the bedroom, where the two teenagers sit in bed, sheets pulled up to their neck.
Sansa’s knuckles are white holding onto the doorknob; her jaws set so tight, the cords on her neck come visible.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Robb offers weakly, when –by the smell in the air, by the glimpse Margaery got a moment ago– it’s exactly what it looks like. “I swear. We didn’t…”
“Didn’t what?” Sansa asks, fury simmering in her flat voice. “Finish?”
On Robb’s right, Beth, flushed to her roots, draws the sheet a little higher, but lifts her chin in a spur of frantic spirit. “Oh Gods, Mrs. Stark. I know we shouldn’t have…” Her eyes disappear beneath a mess of blonde curls. “We’re sorry. We didn’t think—”
“No,” Sansa cuts her off. “Clearly, you didn’t.” She glares them down, for a long moment, her body as taut as her voice. “Get dressed. I want you in the kitchen in two minutes.”
Without another word, she twists on her heel, leaving Margaery to stare at the two teenagers with slumped shoulders. “I’ll talk to her,” she offers, scraping an unsteady hand through her hair. “Strip those sheets, will you?”
Face buried in hands, Beth manages a nod, while Robb drops back into pillows, looking like he’s ready to swear off sex for all eternity.
Margaery nods too, retracts, only to halt once more when the closing door sends a waft of the used-up air towards her. “And for Gods’ sakes, open a window.”
In the kitchen, the window is already wide open, the fragments of an erratically lit cigarette strewn over the windowsill, while Sansa paces, bringing the filter to her lips in fidgety motions.
Her eyes are hard landing on Margaery. “I’m going to kill him.”
“No, you won’t.”
“No, right. I’ll kill both of them.”
A tight hold of her waist, Margaery steers Sansa to sit at the table, and rests both palms on her shoulders, like holding down a rattling lid on a boiling pot. “Just try and calm down.”
Sansa twists out of her grip. “I don’t want to calm down.”
Margaery sighs. Living with teenagers, comes with its trials. Puberty is a bitch for everyone involved. All the strains and struggles of a separation –lives and time split between two homes, a too small apartment, a new person in their lives– pass most days in a dangerous balance between unpleasant and awful.
That was the part Margaery was somewhat prepared for. What she didn’t see coming was that Sansa as a mother would at times exasperate her more than bratty teenagers at their very worst.
Those volatile reactions, whenever the kids aren’t behaving like she wants them to behave, is one of her least favourite discoveries about Sansa. Some of the things she’ll say, certain phrases, will remind Margaery so blatantly of her own mother, it makes her skin crawl. When it comes to berating the kids, Sansa will be unfair and inconsiderate, a lot of times so very hypocritical, that Margaery can’t help but side with the kids.
Before they started living together, Margaery was determined not to weigh in on matters concerning the kids’; was set that all questions of parenting were Sansa and Jon’s prerogative. She’s learned quickly that, while a well-meant intention, this one hardly holds up in reality. When feelings are running as high as they are right now, it’s not an option at all.
Margaery waits until Sansa gets another deep drag of the cigarette in. “Blowing this out of proportion won’t undo it.”
“Won’t know that until I try.”
“Come on. So, they’re having sex.”
“In our bed.”
While, yes, Margaery could have done without that— “We both know that a car backseat in this weather doesn’t make for the most pleasurable experience.”
Sansa glowers after her, as she goes to close the window, as riled up by her calm, composed tone as Alis is most days. “Can you take this serious please?”
“They thought they had the place to themselves. If we hadn’t come back early—”
“And that makes it okay? That they didn’t count on getting caught?”
“Don’t you think you’re being just a bit…” Margaery hesitates, both hands curled around a half full bottle of Arbor Red. “You had sex when you were his age.”
“Well, look where it got me. Am I supposed to sit by, and let him ruin his life?”
Margaery sighs, and tops up an already generously filled glass. “Maybe don’t put it like that when you’re talking to him.”
“Do you really not get it?” Sansa tears the wine from her and takes a swig so heavy, a few drops go array on her chin. “If he gets her pregnant—”
“Then make sure he doesn’t.” Stepping behind her, Margaery pulls her back, massaging her shoulders like a coach preparing a boxer to step out into the ring. “Talk to him. To both of them. Make sure they know better than you did.”
Sansa’s head drops against her stomach. “I don’t feel like talking. I feel like yelling.”
Thumbs press down on a particular knotted point at the top of her spine. “That’s not going to keep them from having sex.”
“Maybe not. But I’ll feel better.”
She smooths over her shoulders. “No, you won’t.”
“If he thinks, he’s old—”
A knock on the doorframe interrupts them. The young couple standing there –hastily pulled on clothes and unkempt hair– makes for a most pitiful sight. They’d make a wonderful photograph too. Robb spotting a trace of that truculence Alis brings on when she knows she’s down for a rebuke. Beth holding onto a bunch of coiled up sheets, meeting their gaze in that plucky way, Margaery’s come to like about her.
“We’ll bring these down to the washer,” Robb says. “And then I’ll take Beth home.”
“Not so fast,” Sansa snaps. “Sit.”
Robb’s gaze draws to the ceiling. “Mom, please. We get it. We—”
“Sit. Down.”
It’s Beth, who moves first. The dirty sheets firmly pressed to her front, she takes Robb’s hand and pulls him along; sits with her head held high, back and shoulders rigidly straight. Next to her Robb slumps into his chair, with crossed arms.
Sansa’s gaze flicks back between the two for a long silent moment, her tone striving for composure. “Was that the first time?”
The shake of head comes simultaneously.
“We’re both sixteen,” Robb declares, nullifying the weight of the statement with a dark glower that puts the most bratty toddler to shame. “We’re not doing anything forbidden.”
“That’s not to say we aren’t sorry,” Beth adds, fingers digging into fabric betraying the confidence of her voice. “We really are. And I promise, we were always going to clean up and change the sheets. That’s not to excuse anything, of course. We know what we did was inappropriate. We just… We love each other. We want to be together, and well, where else were we supposed to go? We don’t have anywhere to be alone. Neither of us have a car. And no one will allow a couple of sixteen-year-olds to get a room at the motel.”
Margaery’s teeth dig into her bottom lip, fighting the twitching corners of her mouth. There’s something about those babbled, almost bubbly justifications, that tugs on her heart. The girl’s utter lack of a filter is endearing. She isn’t shy, hasn’t been from the first time she set foot in here.
When Robb brought her home after school a few months ago the first time, within less than ten minutes, she’d explored every room, helped herself to a soda from the fridge, took a couple of shots with Margaery’s camera and professed freely that they didn’t have to act different on her account, because the whole “lesbian deal” didn’t bother her whatsoever.
The bewilderment of that first ambush aside, and a serious talk about the importance of discretion later, Sansa has come around to like Beth too. She likes how that open, direct way gets Robb out of his shell, how her presence never fails to ease him.
Margaery can tell it doesn’t fail to affect Sansa now either, even when her tone rings frigidly cold. “Were you using protection?”
Robb turns red as a tomato, slouching deeper in his seat. “Mom.”
“Answer me.”
The two of them share a look that dissolves every bit of Sansa’s fragile composure into thin air.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She pushes to her feet, throwing her hands up in the air. “Are you really that stupid?”
“We were careful,” Robb defends. “Okay?”
“Careful?”
“I’m tracking my cycle,” Beth chimes in. “I had my period three weeks ago. Today should be safe.”
Sansa shakes her head, swiping up the cigarettes from the windowsill. “Should be,” she echoes, staring outside for a long moment, tapping the pack against her wrist. Her gaze flicks to the pair at the table. “I really thought you were smarter than that. You two talk about moving away, about university, about travelling – that’s not going to happen if you have a baby. Do you understand that? The choices you make now will affect you for the rest of your life.”
Robb scoffs, his eyes darting pointedly to Margaery. “You ought to talk about good choices.”
“Watch your mouth!”
Even Margaery flinches at the sharp rebuke.
The pack of cigarettes thuds belligerently against Sansa’s wrist. “This isn’t about me.” She draws a deep breath, trembling fingers probing over filters, needing a long moment before getting a hold of one. Her fist closes around the cigarette. “Or you know what, maybe it is. You made it so very clear, that you have no respect for the choices I made in my life – and yet here you are, dead set to repeat my mistakes.”
“I’m not going to repeat anything. If we have a baby, my kid is going to know who its father is.”
“You know who your father is,” Sansa snaps. “And you’re on the best way to setting yourself up to the same dead-end existence he’s got.”
“Sansa,” Margaery interjects.
“Well, he is,” Sansa barks back. “They both are.” Tossing an unlit cigarette into the ashtray, she falls back in her chair and turns to Beth. “You’ll be the one bearing the brunt, if this goes wrong. Do you get that?”
“You’re being unfair, Mrs. Stark.”
Beth chin lifts in a spur of courage Margaery couldn’t muster if she was on the receiving end of Sansa’s glare.
“I’m sorry, but you are. I understand that you’re upset – you’ve got every right to be. I understand that you’re worried. But we weren’t unsafe on purpose or because we didn’t know better. It’s not like we could just go to the pharmacy and buy a pack of condoms. My mom’s second cousin works there. We had a few condoms from a friend, but once we’d used those— My parents don’t have any. There are none here or at Mr. Stark’s house. And it’s not like my mom would ever let me get the pill. We took the precautions available. It’s not our fault that the good ones are hard to come by. What were we supposed to do?”
Sansa’s face softens a little, listening to the flustered rambles, that grow slightly choked the longer she goes on. “You could have asked me.”
“Yeah, no,” Robb drawls. “I’m sure you would have taken that question calm and lightly.”
“Maybe not,” Sansa concedes. “But I would have made sure you’re being safe.”
“Do you really mean that?” Beth’s long lashes blink in a cautious sense of hope.
“Yes. Of course.”
In a sweeping motion, Beth leans forward, capturing Sansa’s hands. “Can you get me the pill, then?”
Sansa’s head jerks back; her face caught in that expression she spots, whenever one of Alis’ witty comebacks leaves her so stunned, she’s not sure whether to yell or laugh.
“I saved some money. I can give you the money.”
It takes some gentle force for Sansa to tear out of Beth’s grip. “We can talk about it.”
“Really? And you wouldn’t tell my parents either? Please say you won’t. They can’t know about any of this. They’d ground me until I’m– I don’t know, forty probably. You know how they are. They mean well but they’re just so… they’re old. They’re nothing like you or Ms. Tyrell. My mom’s so stuck up, she won’t even say the word sex. If she were to find out, she’ll forbid me from seeing Robb. Or worse, make me marry him.”
Now Robb’s head jerks back and Margaery holds onto the counter, not to beeline for her camera. The scene before her, mother and son on opposite ends, each other’s spitting image, Beth’s wild curls in between, would make for a most wonderful capture; one of the many she has had to yield in the last couple of months.
“One thing at a time,” Sansa says, and nods to the coiled-up sheets. “Get those in the washer. Boil wash. And then come back up. You’re staying for dinner.”
Robb peers at her. “I think we’d rather—”
“That wasn’t an offer.”
“Come on, Mom.”
“If you think, you’re old enough to have sex, you better be old enough to deal with the consequences. An awkward conversation is a mild one, I promise you.”
Robb’s shoulders slack, but Beth pushes to her with a vitality –bright blue eyes, and soft, round face alit with elated relief– that always reminds Margaery faintly of a roly-poly doll.
“We’ll be right back,” Beth promises, taking Robb’s hand. “We’ll help with cooking too. Don’t start yet. I saw you have bell peppers in the fridge and I know a great recipe for a filling. Vegetarian too. You’ll love it, I promise.”
The front door closes, and Sansa deflates, granting herself a swig of wine. “Let’s hope she counted right. I don’t think I could take that energy in a toddler.”
Smiling faintly, Margaery closes the distance and sweeps through blown out strands of hair. “You’ll get her the pill then?”
“I don’t know,” Sansa sighs, leaning into her touch. “Imagine anyone were to find out. They’d probably crucify me on the town square. They might just crucify me, thinking I want a prescription for myself.”
Margaery skims along the length of her neck. “Either way? I’m proud of you. You handled that well.”
In terms of handling this, well is a bit of an exaggeration. But Margaery’s found that a bit of praise will go a long way in terms of Sansa striving to do better.
The little white lie, comes rewarded by Sansa pulling her close, face nuzzled into her side. “Not like I have much moral high ground left here.”
“Beth got a pretty good glimpse at me topless. I give her credit for not bringing that up as leverage.”
Sansa’s weary chuckle rushes warmly against her. “What are the chances she won’t bring that up during dinner?”
“Very low.”
“Lovely. I might just have to get her the pill to buy her silence.”
Margaery sighs, feeling the rigid tension in Sansa’s nape loosen ever so slightly under her caress. “If you want, I can get it for her.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“No.” In the little she can do to ease all Sansa has to juggle, this is a no-brainer. Half the town is already convinced she’s sleeping around anyway. It’ll make for a good red herring, to keep anyone of their trail. Besides. “Not like I have much of a reputation to lose.”
A teasing smile rings in Sansa’s voice. “More a bad one to maintain.”
“Precisely.” Margaery settles in Sansa’s lap, an arm slung around her neck. “Setting this little world ablaze one family at a time.”
They share a small smile, but there’s more truth to that than either of them are willing to admit. It’s not been a full year since she arrived here, and not a whole lot of things in Sansa’s life endured. Not her marriage, not the relationship with her kids. Never mind her reputation.
Some days –nights mostly, those nights after draining days, when it feels like the whole world is set out to have them fail– Margaery will turn to a sleeping Sansa and wonder if she’s yet come to regret it. Choosing her, choosing them. Most nights, the face next to her, cast in serenity will leave her stuck for an answer.
Only every once in a while, Sansa will be awake too, and then, there will be that slow smile building on her lips. Sometimes tired or weary, other times soft and warm, but always, absolutely always, in that permissive sense of alleviation. Like she can’t believe she’s actually there, right next to her, like having her there, makes it all worth a thousandfold.
She feels that very smile in the kiss that finds her lips now, finds it still in place when Sansa curls back against her, eyes fluttering shut, and says, “Made for a cozy winter so far.”
Margaery kisses the top of her head. “True.”
There are many things that aggravate and exhaust her in this new life. And then there’s this, just cuddling up with Sansa on a cold day; Sansa letting her know, without so many words that she’s happy. In those moments she ceases to care about all the gossip and hardships, and happily feeds the spare remnants of restlessness that formed the last decade of her life to the flames. She doesn’t need weekend getaways, she doesn’t need hotels or hot springs. All she—
Her mind comes to a screeching halt.
“Sansa?”
“Hm?”
She listens into the silence for a long moment, a faint lapping of water turning more prominent. “Did you ever turn off that bathtub?”