There's a meanness in Sansa's lovely, clearwater blue eyes. Deep and impenetrable, her waters bitter-cold and swallowing up her naivety.
Margaery quite likes that about her, if need be honest.
On the fall of the eve-tide, she invites Lady Sansa without any attendants to her grand, perfumed sleeping chambers. One of Margaery's own girls pouts and fusses, stroking the length of Margaery's arm and her sleep-softened, chestnut brown curls. She's thin stature and rosy copper skin, hair like spun-gold—practically lives in Margaery's bed, wishing to please her, to be spoiled and admired. Margaery has no patience for her, smacking the hand away unkindly and ordering her out.
Lady Sansa enters a little after the tapers are lit, washing in radiance, in the glow of Sansa's auburn locks.
Margaery gazes over the other girl's dark, woolen night-cloak and shapeless gown. She puts on an encouraging, practiced smile, gesturing Sansa to join her near the long, supper table.
"You must be thrilled about tomorrow," Sansa says, eyes lowered, but her voice lacking any emotion.
Margaery wrinkles her nose, chuckling and smoothing her fingers over her myrish lace bed-gown. She reaches for a jeweled, ornate goblet and the sweet-apple cider, pouring the amber liquid in. "I know sarcasm when I hear it, dearest. Mind your tongue."
Sansa's face turns a rich red colour, her brow scrunching in indignation—even as Margaery offers her the goblet, even as the other girl quickly snatches it from her fingertips.
"… … Or I shall make a proper use of it," Margaery adds primly, teasingly.
Beyond this scene, the Red Keep bustles about in a hurry, gathering extravagantly towering flower arrangements and silken things for the royal marriage.
It means little to her right now.
Here, in this beauty and silence, Sansa's full lips are glistening wet and the most divine wonder Margaery's sights could be bestowed with. She imagines drinking the cider straight from her little, upturned mouth, when Sansa finally rests herself a wood-and-steel chair.
"It can't exactly be a threat if I am willing," Sansa comments, eyeing Margaery with plain admiration.
"Boldness hardly suits you."
Margaery circles her, lying her hands gently upon Sansa's shoulders and feeling the tension lessen from her muscles. She peels off the woolen cloak, tossing it aside and slowly unbuttoning Sansa's gown, beginning at her nape.
"I disagree," Sansa says, breathy and laughing into her goblet, feeling Margaery playfully brush her fingers up her neck.
The gown slips down Sansa's lightly freckled shoulders, exposing her back. There's a scar, perhaps only a finger's length, faint and pale pink. Margaery curiously touches it, feeling a tiny, pleasurable shudder from her companion.
Sansa has been exposed many times to others, to the king and his men, in their violence and greedy stares.
"Have the beatings stopped?" she asks, gathering up Sansa's hair and letting it spill across her left shoulder.
After a long pause, Sansa nods, turning in place to face Margaery.
It's much too heavy of a subject, and Margaery already knows how thankful Sansa is for her kindness. For protecting her—and Margaery will. "The gods are good to us." Margaery's hands frame Sansa's face, lifting her agitated expression. "That means our king desires my ear and my wisdom," she tells her calmly. "He will listen to me."
"You won't be happy marrying that monster." The words between Sansa's teeth are fierce, unforgiving. A wolf's sharpness. "I know you won't—it's not what you desire."
She's not wrong.
"Indeed, I desire so much more than that," Margaery agrees with a girlish, sugary lithe, pulling Sansa out of her chair and clutching their hands together. "I desire you." Sansa's blue eyes widen when Margaery lessens the distance, their noses bumping. "Would it be shameful to confess feelings for you, Lady Sansa?"
It's adorable how cross-eyed Sansa goes.
"I intent to marry another man, yet it is your body that I wish to cherish until the day's light fades."
Margaery's sweet and fantastical words only half-register as Sansa tightens her grasp on Margaery, frowning. "We should leave for Highgarden," she insists. "Please."
It sounds like a dream.
Margaery has already imagined it countless times. To avoid a loveless marriage, to avoid an abusive husband and lay down her ambitions for Queen, but… that's hardly within her own character. Margaery wants what she wants, and she will have it. She will have it as soon as Joffrey either succumbs to illness, or dies.
"Are you so eager to marry my brother Willas—is that it?" Margaery asks, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. Sansa untangles their hands on purpose, embracing her waist and looking so stern that Margaery is mildly terrified to laugh. What a silly, wonderful girl.
"You know I only wish to marry you, if I need marry at all," Sansa says, with that meanness and cold-water in the blue of her eyes, coursing through her veins.
There's an aroma of lemons and mints, when Margaery greedily presses against Sansa's opening, euphoric mouth.
GoT is not mine. I made the summary directly the prompt I took from the Femslash Revolution 2016 Prompt Exchange! This was placed by Captain_Writers_Block_5 and I hope they love it as much as I loved writing it! AND THE FANS OF SANSAERY! WHAT AN A+++++ SHIP! Amy comments/thoughts would be so so so so appreciated thank you!