The Summer Children
A/N: An imagined ending of the series. More chapters to come.
WARNING: References to sadism and torture.
Sansa
Sansa wakes soaked in sweat. Bedclothes wrap tightly around her thighs and arms, and her hair lies thick and heavy around her shoulders, wet strands wrapping around her neck. Her heartbeat is loud and painful as her breath spills from her throat in straggling gasps. It feels as though someone is still sitting on her chest, as though she is still trapped in her nightmare.
But she is no longer dreaming. The room isn't quite so dark now, she finds, as her breathing begins to slow. A candle is still burning. A candle burns through the night, always. Those who care for her make certain of that.
"Harder, my lady. I cannot hear her. Or perhaps you might prefer the blade of the knife to the hilt, Sansa?"
She presses her hands to her mouth and cries into them, shaking, wishing she had a blade now, that it were possible to excise memories from one's mind as easily as one slices through flesh. There are a great many things she wishes to forget. An oily voice, whispering her mother's name in the dark. The heavy, wet sound of Ice severing her father's head.
Her shuddering is not quite under control, though she's trying to keep still, and the warm, curled form next to her stirs. "Sansa?" A sleepy voice murmurs. "What is it?" Movement, then, and gentle fingers loosen the bedclothes, push back her hair, curve delicately under her chin. "Dreaming of him?" The words are sharp, thorny, though the voice is sweet. "He's gone. Don't give him the power."
"Do you not think I would stop if I could? Do you think I ever want to think of him again?" Sansa steadies her voice, keeps from breaking into a wail. She is long practiced at hiding her true feelings, and it has been years since she's been young enough to weep and wail at night terrors. She is a lady, a woman grown, and there are worse things to cry about, although in truth, there are fewer of them, now that there is peace. The kingdom is healing, but her own sins ravage her soul.
"But you must not. We have survived him. We are free, and we are happy enough. Or we could be." Margaery's voice chides Sansa gently as she rests her head on Sansa's shoulder. The older girl's brown curls tumble forward, tickling Sansa's neck and bare arms.
"I can't forget," she murmurs, gathering Margaery's curls and inhaling her fragrance. She smells, not of roses, but of lemon blossoms and sweet cedar, of summer, of Highgarden. Even in the longest winter night, summer bloomed in her hair, and it gave Sansa hope. Spring is heavy in the air, now, and, feeling Margaery stiffen against her, Sansa pleads with the gods that she no longer prays to that sun and long, warm days will soothe this summer child's soul.
Margaery does not like to talk about that long, horror of a night, the eve of her doomed wedding. Sansa knows this, and although she understands Margaery's pain, she sometimes cannot help thinking of it. They have both killed to protect themselves, and this has bonded them, but it has also changed them. She is stronger, fearful of her power, though she embraces it, too. Margaery instead became sorrowful, and though there is less evil in the world, now, she seems to have drawn a tendril of darkness into her soul. Sansa cannot blame her. But by accepting the presence of evil, one can weaken it, defeat it. Though Sansa's memories creep into dreams that set her sobbing and shaking, in the day, she is brave. She is a Stark of the north, still, one of the last of her House. A noble lady, cherished and admired, just as she always wanted to be.
Margaery is strong in the night, holding Sansa close, stroking tears from her cheeks and brushing her tangled hair, but in the day she is somber, watchful. She moves with grace, still, but slowly, as if she is carrying something heavy. Though she is still young and beautiful, she is no longer the famed Tyrell rose, a widely-sought prize. Her second husband snared her easily, and his somber gray gaze is a perfect match for her soft doe's eyes, which are no longer quick to spark in jest.
Sansa wishes for nothing more, these days, now that every member of her family is known to be either dead or safe, for Margaery to regain her spirit, but the fine white lines on Sansa's thighs, though long healed, remind her every day why this cannot be so.
"Help me," Sansa whispers through Margaery's hair. "Make me forget."
Margaery sighs. By now, Sansa knows every one of the sounds she makes. She can hear exasperation and pain, happiness, or desire in each long exhalation, can read interest, boredom, or anger in the curve of her lips. This breath, which sends strands of Sansa's hair drifting across her face, is thick with resignation and longing. Reaching for Sansa's nightdress, she undoes the lacings and pushes it from her shoulders, curling her long fingers around Sansa's breast. Sansa sucks in her breath, knowing what is coming. Margaery draws Sansa's nipple between her fingers, stroking and teasing, then, in a quick movement, brings her lips down, catches the skin between her teeth and bites, hard. Sansa has her palm ready, presses it to her lips to muffle her cry. Margaery pulls with her teeth, not letting go. Tears sting at Sansa's eyes, and when Margaery finally lets her go, she almost believes she's heard a high voice commanding her to do so. "That's enough, my lady. I think she's learned her lesson."
She feels the slap before it comes. "Lie down," Margaery says, her voice steady as steel. Sansa obeys, her cheek stinging, and hears the rustle of fabric. They keep things under the bed. They brush away their own dust, as the maids have orders to leave that space to them. The riding crop is next. Margaery doesn't tell Sansa what she's going to use, anymore. She knows that Sansa trusts her.
Her body quivers as the crop whistles through the air. It stings, but the burn soothes her, somehow. Pain can be managed and focused, and somehow, it eases her misery.
Margaery will not use a knife on her, not that Sansa wishes her to. They agreed that in the beginning. But she does use the handle of the riding crop inside Sansa. Tonight, she is forceful, and by the time she pulls the handle out, making Sansa wince, and shoves it between her lips, Sansa's insides are sore. But she licks her own wetness from the handle obediently, and her body twitches as Margaery pushes her back against the pillows and spreads her legs over Sansa's face.
Sit astride her face, he commanded. I want to see her tongue inside you. Sansa had been afraid, but she had managed to forget her fear for a moment, that night. Margaery's scent was salty and lightly metallic, and the warmth on her face had been enjoyable. She hadn't known that, while her face was buried in the other girl's womanhood, Joffrey was handing Margaery a knife and pointing a crossbow to Sansa's heart. The first scars are very faint, where Margaery had hesitated. Sansa hadn't even noticed the first cut, until it stung from the salt of Margaery's tears, dripping into the cut. But then Joffrey said Deeper and Sansa felt something cold and sharp, then something wet across her thigh, and then pain. Hot, bright, pain. She screamed, and Joffrey laughed. Turn it. Put the hilt inside her.
Your Grace, please, no. Margaery told her later that he'd then used a thumb to wipe her cheek.
If my lady insists, he'd said, and she had thought it was over and placed the knife into his outstretched palm, but then he'd whipped it away and buried the hilt deep inside Sansa, who, her gaze blocked by Margaery's body, shook with tears and fear of what was to come.
Now, she presses her fingers into Margaery as she works her tongue over the spot that makes Margaery shiver and squeal. This is something she can do for her to ease her pain, and Margaery's whimpers set her own desire flooding her thighs. Sansa laces her fingers through Margaery's, her other hand curving around her buttocks. When Margaery is close to spent, she shudders and works her fingers through Sansa's hair, bucking her hips against Sansa's face as Sansa holds her thighs down.
They curl back into each other's arms, Margaery's fingers lazily rubbing the sensitive spot at the top of Sansa's womanhood. The more Sansa whimpers and fidgets, the more delicate Margaery's touch, until Sansa gives in and begs for release. "Please, let me-"
Only then does Margaery press hard and fast, digging her fingertips into Sansa's skin, until warmth rushes up through her thighs and bursts, low in her groin.
Sleep comes easily to Margaery, but Sansa only slows her breathing, wondering, as always, if the gods mean to punish her for her sins. Her thighs ache, and a dull pain is beginning low in her belly. Her mind is tumultuous: happiness wins briefly, as the warmth at her back and the soft breaths tickling her shoulder soothe her. Then the candle flickers just so, and she is back in her room at the Eyrie (far smaller, but well lit with candles), hearing the familiar rap at her door, feeling her fingers curl around a loose net of amethysts and silver, the only weapon she has at her disposal.
The morning of the wedding, Margaery had come to Sansa's chamber, only a few short hours after Joffrey had collapsed into a drunken, sated sleep and Sansa, wrapped only in her tangled hair and bloodied gown, had crept back to her room before she was missed. "I brought you a gift." She tucked a silver net of amethysts around Sansa's carefully arranged hair. There were shadows under her eyes, but Sansa knew they'd somehow be gone by the ceremony.
Margaery's fingers were cool and firm against Sansa's forehead as she worked the net into her hair, and she had wanted to press Margaery's hand to her face and never leave the chamber. But though her lord husband was insensible on the chair, an empty goblet tipped as though he'd tried to reach for it but failed, he would likely wake soon.
At least he knew nothing of the night before. Sansa wondered if she should begin to drink herself insensible. As if she could sense Sansa's thoughts, Margaery touched Sansa's cheek. "Be strong. It will be over soon."
Nothing will be over, Sansa wanted to say. This horror is just beginning.
But it did end, and she fled with Lord Baelish, who sent a guard to lead her through the streets as Joffrey clawed his throat out. But she was only running to a new nightmare. He took her to the Eyrie, murdered her aunt, and then made her lie with him nightly, calling her Catelyn and stroking her hair in the dark.
But she murdered him with Margaery's poison and came home to her lord husband, who ignores her, and Margaery, who understands.
She is not sure what holds them together. It may not be love, but it is stronger. They have both killed men, and they have lain on the same bed, tortured, bleeding onto each other, not sure if they would live through the night.
But they survived, just as they survived the winter, the war. And they come back to that night, relive it. Their husbands know but say nothing, only watch them quietly when they are together. Sansa sometimes thinks the look on her husband's face is fear. Her brother (who is not truly her brother, it seems) watches her with some other look. Sorrow, she thinks, and longing.