Author's Note: So I'd like to give out an important word about spoilers. So this is an AU, and, since the ASoIaF series isn't finished yet, I couldn't make the journeys of these alternate versions of the characters run parallel to those of the originals in GRRM's world if I wanted. There are many basic plot points I've kept (and given a modern twist). So far, none of the major plot points from any part of the series beyond what we've seen in Season 4 of the television show have been incorporated and modernized here. Eventually, though, I will be adding in plot developments re-imagined from A Feast for Crows and A Dance with Dragons*, regardless of whether or not the T.V. show has caught up. Before that happens, I will warn you ahead of time.
* And I may end up having to conclude my characters' journeys before I have anything to base it on except my own desires, though that warrants no cautioning. Nay, not even a sigh of regret, as I was always going to have my own endgame for my modernized GoT characters. :P
So without further ado, please enjoy Castles in the Sky, Castles Made of Sand. First POV belongs to Sansa.
Sansa
Her mother had always praised her for how ladylike she was, how well-mannered. She said Sansa navigated social situations with poise.
But it was nothing, Sansa reflected, compared to the poise that Margaery Tyrell possessed.
Margaery wasn't always polite or well-mannered, but she was still an expert at ingratiating herself with people. Somehow or another, people always seemed to wind up loving Margaery. Her eyes could have a sharp, mocking look to them, but they could just as easily go all soft and sympathetic, so that even the most cynical person would believe that she genuinely cared about their happiness in life. Her mouth had a decided talent for curling sardonically, but it could also form the most winning of smiles. She seemed to know instinctively just what each person she met most wanted to hear, and was as good a listener as she was a talker, and when she got to talking, she could go a mile a minute. She made friends effortlessly and when Sansa had known her at UCLA, she had been a favorite of many of the teachers, too. She was a master flirt, as well, and drew guys to her like flies to honey. None of her relationships ever lasted very long, but she stayed friendly with all her exes. Maybe it was Margaery's experience with guys that gave her such confidence. Sansa had only ever had one real boyfriend, and her only...experience had been with him.
And it had never been that satisfying, Sansa remembered, cringing. Of course, nearly every remembrance of Joff brought on a cringe. At the very least. Or tears. Or rage. Or nausea.
Even sashaying around in a pair of sweat pants rolled up past her ankles and a baggy, faded old T-shirt, Marg avoided looking at all dowdy or sloppy and somehow maintained an air of casual sophistication.
"Sansa," Margaery grinned, plopping down in the director's chair that was next to the beanbag chair Sansa was currently lounging in. She leaned forward and grabbed Sansa's hand with the warm urgency that was so characteristic of her. "I'm going to kidnap you. I'm going to bring you to my grandma's house, and keep you there for at least a good, long week, and all we're going to do is hang around in our pajamas, drink chardonnay, and watch trash T.V." Margaery was currently holding a glass of chardonnay, and she swirled it around with a cheerful though careful, flourish, then held it aloft, like she was ready for Sansa to toast to her plans. "What do you think?" She raised one of her always-expressive eyebrows expectantly.
Sansa sipped at her own glass of the wine her friend had brought over. Lowering it, she smiled over the rim at the brunette young woman opposite her.
"Marg..." she began, a hint of chastisement in her voice even as she looked apologetically at her companion. "You know-"
"Don't you dare say no to me!" Margaery cut her off with faux sternness. Her nose crinkled playfully, but in her eyes was a flash of exasperation. "C'mon! I barely get to see you anymore! Why won't you come and stay with me for a while?"
Sansa shook her head in disbelief, still smiling, though it was a bit forced. Margaery Tyrell did things like serve at the soup kitchen and organize charity toy drives, but that didn't mean that at times she wasn't seriously self-centered. Sansa was used to this, but still, she was tired of having arguments, however civil, like the one she knew was brewing.
"Well...because of school, for one...and work for another..." she drawled, voice tinged with sarcasm. "It's just going to make getting to my classes really, really difficult if I'm staying with you at your grandmother's. Even if I had my car...which, you know, I don't anymore..." Speaking about her recent transportation difficulties brought on a definite ache. Not physical. Save a pale, jagged scar seven inches long on the back of her leg, she'd fully recovered physically from the accident that had probably been meant to permanently maim her...or worse. She swallowed. No, it was an emotional ache. She had been attached to her car, an eighteenth birthday present from her parents; however, missing that car wasn't what wounded her, either. No. What had caused her trauma was that act, that act of malice by the guy who'd said he loved her, an act of malice greater than even he had ever inflicted on her before. Long before the accident, she'd accepted that Joff didn't love her. But she never imagined he hated her as much as all that.
The pang she experienced when talking about the car also had something to do with the people who had given it to her being dead. Whenever she thought about how her good, warm, sensible mother and reliable, kind, reliable father were no longer with her, she got an empty feeling inside of her chest.
Margaery sat as though waiting for something. Margaery, who believed that Joffrey had changed. Was changing. Whatever. She'd said she never believed that Joffrey truly meant to hurt Sansa, that night he was chasing her in his Escalade. Margaery had been spending a lot of time with Joffrey. They were friends now. And Sansa didn't care, or at least she kept telling herself that she didn't, as long as Marg never, ever brought Joffrey around her.
Margaery drummed her OPI Bubble Bath-painted fingernails against her glass while watching Sansa's face expectantly.
Sansa played dumb, raising her eyebrows like she didn't know what Margaery was after. Like to her, Sansa, the subject was already closed.
"It would be so cool if you went to the party me and my grandmother are having this Sunday. Stay for a long weekend, at least."
Sansa pursed her lips. She hated refusing people. And she especially hated it when she had to summon all her courage to refuse somebody the simplest thing. She should have more courage, she knew- she was like a foolish, tremulous little bird. But she'd always been a people pleaser, and after everything that had happened, in the face of opposition now, it so often felt like whatever little fight she had ever had in her naturally was gone. She muttered only one word.
"Sorry."
"Okay," Marg sighed in exasperation, getting back up and beginning to pace the room. "I've got energy to burn tonight. You know how I have insomnia sometimes, right? You remember that from when we lived together?" She broke into a wide grin as she turned toward her friend. "How we used to go driving at night to kill the boredom and hit up the fast food drive-thru's while listening to bad old pop music?"
When Sansa had lived with Margaery, it had been like living with a whirling dervish. However, Sansa had been much happier back then, and she hadn't much minded, though she'd never been as bold as her life-of-the-party friend. Those were the good old days, all the way around.
"Sure," Sansa replied. "Good times. Of course, I guess we were kind of acting like dorks." She chuckled. "You don't think we're still that dorky, do you?" she joked.
"So you remember how I am? When I just need to get out?" Margaery continued, ignoring her question, a cheerfully needling tone in her voice, her eyes bright with a new scheme. "Let's go dancing! At a club! Will you go to a club with me? Sansa, I know just the one- I went there for the first time a few weeks ago. It's called The Maidenvault-"
"The Maidenvault?" Sansa had to interrupt, but she felt her back stiffen, even as she sat in a beanbag chair. Marg's suggestion provoked an immediate negative reaction in her. She hated clubs, always had, and the thought alone of going out to one tonight had her exhausted already. "Sexy," she kidded weakly.
Marg grinned. "And it's awesome," she went on. "Not too uptight or pretentious, you know, but not, like, a dive, either. It's just about people having a great time."
"Sounds great," Sansa lied. "But...I think that'll have to wait to some other time, Marg, I...I'm really too tired for that, I think."
"Seriously? Why are you tired? You didn't even have any classes today, and you didn't work."
Sansa's heart sank. She felt like she'd already given in, and that disappointed her. This new idea of Margaery's wasn't her idea of a good time, and Marg should know that. How many times had Sansa wanted to go clubbing with her even way in the past when everything was good? And on the occasions when she hadn't been able to credibly say that she had a prior engagement or when she'd just been feeling so optimistic that anything, even clubbing, sounded like it could potentially be fun, she'd gone and done a seriously sub-par job of imitating her group's ecstatic antics. That couldn't have gone unnoticed.
As Sansa dithered, Margaery whined, "Come ooooon," in a way that should have made her sound about five years old, but somehow didn't.
"Margaery, I don't- I don't know...I wasn't planning on going out tonight. Maybe I don't have any right to feel tired, but I'm just- I'm just feeling kind of," she made a useless, confused kind of gesture, cupped palms raised upward as she waved her arms weakly back and forth before shrugging and then crossing them over her stomach, "low key."
"What if we can get Loras to come out with us?"
What if you can get Loras to come out? Sansa almost returned, but she bit her tongue. She didn't understand why Marg would used Loras as bait to get Sansa to go out, though. It almost felt like she was still rubbing that in. So she used to have a massive crush on Marg's older brother. That was a hundred years ago. Sansa scowled and picked at a cuticle. A hundred years ago since, after she'd hinted to Margaery that she'd like to know if Loras was interested in dating her, Marg had laughed at her for not knowing that Loras was gay. Was Margaery still laughing at that old gag? So apparently Loras was only out to a few people, but it was supposed to be so obvious that basically everyone knew, anyway. Sansa didn't think it was that obvious. Loras was always flirting with girls. Besides, he was probably pretty much the best-looking guy on the planet (and a moderately-famous male model), so who could blame her for at least asking?
"Loras is fun," Sansa said lightly, successfully, she thought, disguising her annoyance. "But, really, Marg, I just don't wanna go out, no matter who with."
"But Sansa," Margaery collapsed dramatically at her feet and grabbed her hand, gazing up at her with wide, beseeching amber eyes. "Sansa...I've been wanting a fun night out with you again for such a long time! I was so happy when I found out you were moving back here and getting your own place. But these past six months...Sansa, it's like you've just been hiding yourself away in here..."
"I haven't been hiding myself away!" Sansa objected, a trace of real indignation entering her tone. She pulled her hand away from Margaery's and curled her fingers in against her knee. "I'm not a...a shut-in, Margaery. I go to school, I go to work, I...I go out and buy groceries, I don't have them delivered-"
Her friend was smiling at her sadly. "You've been through a lot. So much. I told you this right after everything happened. I can't imagine what it's been like for you, and how much you've suffered. My heart breaks for you."
Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. She'd heard countless words of sympathy since her parents and Robb had died. She could deal with them fine if they were said in passing. She could deal with them fine if they were said out in public. She'd been taught well never to make an emotional scene in public. But here was Margaery, looking her dead in the eye like this, all deliberateness and compassion, cornering her in her own home. With a great deal of effort, Sansa held back the tears, and opened her eyes.
"I know there's a limit to how much I," Margaery put a hand on her heart earnestly, "can help. But won't you at least let me try? Please don't shut me out, Sansa. I'm your friend, and I love you. Let's not lose the sense of fun in our friendship. Neither one of use deserves that."
And before Sansa knew what she was doing, she was waving the white flag.
"Yeah, okay, Marg, alright, I'll go..."
Margaery interrupted with a happy squeal. She sprang to her feet and patted Sansa on the knee as if to say, 'that's my girl!'
"Now, if I'm not mistaken, you still have some of my clothes." Margaery shot Sansa a joking look over her shoulder as she sauntered over to Sansa's closet and threw it open without invitation. "Haven't been wearing any of them, have you?"
Sansa bristled slightly. She gave an awkward chuckle, turning her back toward Margaery, ostensibly to collect the glasses and wine bottle and take them to the kitchen, but really so Margaery didn't see her slight grimace. Was Marg mocking her? Treating her like a lame, prudish younger sister again? Someone who would never in a million years wear revealing, hyper body-conscious outfits like Marg and deserved disdain because of that? She stuck the wine in the fridge and the glasses in the sink and told herself that Margaery was only gently poking fun. Margaery respected her...her sartorial choices, surely. She walked back around the bar and into the living room portion of her home, which with the little apartment's open floor plan, provided a full view into the tiny bedroom. She collapsed back into her beanbag chair and watched Marg try to pick out an outfit.
"Ooo, I've missed this one. I've only worn it once." She turned to show Sansa the dress, a bright white, body-hugging knee-length dress with three-quarter length sleeves and a plunging neckline, festooned with a fleur-de-lis pattern on the front in gold embroidery.
"It's very pretty, Margaery," Sansa complimented, trying to work herself up into a going-out spirit. She was coming up short, but at least she sounded chipper. "That's the one you wore to your grandmother's birthday, right?"
"That's right!" Marg exclaimed, dimpling happily at Sansa's good memory. Sansa smiled, too. She knew how much Margaery loved the salty, somewhat frightening woman who was her grandmother, Olenna Tyrell. It was probably one of her best traits.
Margaery ended up selecting that dress, and then gained Sansa's easily given permission to use some of her makeup. After she wandered into the studio apartment's bathroom, Sansa forced herself up out of her chair and pulled the elastics securing the braids on either side of her head free from her hair. She shook her head, out of exasperation as much as to shake her newly-loose red locks around. Why exactly was she going along with this? Well, because Marg was her friend and she wanted her to be happy and get to do things she liked and also because there was only a certain extent to which she could afford to displease Margaery. She didn't exactly have a ton of friends left, not after what happened with her family. The way they were slandered.
And then led to the slaughter.
Sansa went to her closet and spent but a few minutes surveying its contents before she made her choice. She only had a few outfits, anymore, that would be suitable for a club. She picked out a tank dress with a gray bodice and a black flared skirt. She'd wear her purple heels for a pop of color, she decided, and changed out of her Mossimo for Target shorts and T-shirt. She also grabbed a necklace- made of three fine, delicate sterling silver strands that looked like wire, twisting around each other with little twinkling amethysts housed between them- and put it on. It was one of the dozen pieces of jewelry Margaery had given her free of charge. Her purse was sitting on the ground by the bar separating the kitchen and living area, and she walked over to retrieve it, taking from the inside a couple of lip products, her compact, and her brush. She carefully passed the brush through her hair, and then tried to fluff it up around the crown, but to no avail. The length of her hair was wavy now, but it was hopelessly flat on top. She sighed, and did her best to resign herself to this look. She applied some Nars The Multiple tint in Orgasm (she remembered how she'd giggled when she'd bought her Orgasm blush at fourteen) to her lips and cheeks, then topped her lips with clear gloss. Walking over to the full-length mirror, she gave herself a once-over and felt her appearance to be wanting. Sansa was "statuesque", that was a word she'd gotten a lot in her life, and pretty, but tonight her hair was flat and she looked even more dumb and diffident than usual.
Margaery came out of the bathroom and feigned a noise of disgust.
"You're, like, so beautiful, Sansa. I'm dying. Every guy at the club will be checking you out."
Sansa rolled her eyes as she smoothed her skirt. As if Margaery would view her as competition of any kind.
Margaery nudged Sansa's purple velvet pump with her own strappy gold stiletto.
"Always purple," she teased her friend.
"Of course," Sansa said simply with a grin. Purple was her favorite color.
BREAK!
Despite being an enormous flirt, twenty whole minutes had passed and Marg had been true to her promise, not abandoning Sansa to dance with any of the guys who had asked her (or to go in the back room or outside with any of the guys who had asked her) since they arrived at The Maidenvault. Oh, Sansa had been asked to dance plenty, too, but she'd turned all her would-be partners down. Recently she sometimes felt that, had she not been raised with brothers and had a fantastic father, she would be completely scared of guys now. As it was, she was only weary of them. It was like she'd said to Margaery- she didn't want to be out there tonight, to mingle and be social. She didn't really want the pressure of having to act...like a partier.
Having ruled out dancing and flirting, they by turns danced goofily with each other and just stood bobbing their heads along to the music and sipping their drinks in the middle of the enthusiastic and trendy throng.
Marg probably could have gotten them into the VIP section, but she didn't venture up the small flight of stairs leading to the exclusive upper alcove, sectioned off by a velvet rope and outfitted with thick, plush dark curtains that the VIP's could keep closed or open at will. She rarely went for things like that, preferring instead to be among her adoring public. Okay, so it wasn't even like most people even recognized her, but still, Marg had that air about her: it was like she was "the people's queen" or something. It was nice, Sansa supposed, that Margaery wasn't...what was that word her poli-sci major half-brother was always throwing around?...elitist, but just sometimes, Sansa sort of wished Margaery would take more advantage of the perks she was given, so Sansa could enjoy the spill over.
Tonight, though, jewelry designer extraodinaire Margaery Tyrell did keep sneaking looks up at the second level of the club. Sansa knew that she was trying to be secretive because she ducked her head after every time she did it. Who could be up there? And moreover, how could Margaery even tell who was up there, even though the curtain was currently parted? Under the strobe lights, Sansa's eyes were starting to burn, and she could barely see a foot in front of her face.
She didn't ask Marg who she was looking for, though, because she was too caught up in feeling strangely paranoid- not just cautious like a girl needed to be in a place like this, but like any one of these people might be concealing some hidden weapon, metaphorical bows and arrows to bring down her silly little bird self. She tried her best to hide her bizarre thoughts behind her silly dancing and jerky head bobs and not completely authentic laughter. She kept reminding herself that none of these people gave a damn about her, one way or the other.
That was a terrifying thought, too.
"Sansa, I'll be right back, okay?"
Sansa's head swiveled around so rapidly she was surprised she didn't give herself whiplash. But Margaery moved fast, too. Sansa turned toward her friend just in time to see the back of her vanishing. She was moving quickly, so quickly through the crowd. Sansa opened her mouth to object, and she reached out to grab onto her, but Margaery was gone, disappeared before any words could be uttered or Sansa could so much as graze the brunette's sleeve with a fingertip.
Sansa's jaw clenched and she stomped her foot. Damn it, why the hell would Margaery do that? Why would she have to just get away from her like that? She'd promised to stay close, at Sansa's request. Had Margaery not thought she was serious? She felt the pinpricks of anxiety start to occur. Her brain focused on the thumbing bass as the inertia of the club. It was pounding, pounding away far too fast, and it was so commanding that her heart felt compelled to race in order to match its rhythm.
A group of four of five people was headed her way, laughing and talking loudly, all carrying drinks and playfully shoving and grappling at each other as they walked. There was little wiggle room for them to make it around Sansa, and as she, wide-eyed, watched them approach, she thought they might simply barrel into her and flatten her. She lurched backward just in time, and hit somebody else instead of having them hit her. The people behind her seemed to dislike people knocking into them, too, and backed up right away. Unfortunately, they had been kind of holding her up, and as they moved, she stumbled, and nearly fell on her behind, but for her wildly flailing her arms like a windmill and desperately pitching herself forward. She didn't realize that she was strangely winded until it came out of her in a little whoosh when she righted herself. As the group of roughhousers passed her by, holding their drinks aloft, a couple small splashes of something brown and sour landed on her shoe and on the back of her hand, directly atop the weird, seven-pointed star she'd gotten stamped on her hand when she entered.
She seemed to be the only person standing alone and realized suddenly that she couldn't stay put; she would have to move. This was somewhat easier said than done as her legs were currently shaking, but she had to look for Margaery, or at least find a wall so she could stay mostly out of harm's reach and grope her way around the perimeter of the room to find an exit. She had never felt so claustrophobic in her life. She had a knot in her stomach the size of this great state of California.
She started walking and nearly collided with two people basically humping on the dance floor, the woman with a leg on either side of one of the gyrating man's slightly spread and bent legs. Her back arched dramatically, her hips jerked forward. She was wearing a triangle bikini top under a blazer and...and she actually had her nipple out of one of those triangles right now. And it was in the mouth of her male companion. Sansa hadn't lived a completely sheltered existence. She'd gone to college- twice. Yet she couldn't help but feel scandalized at the display in front of her, and despite herself, found her feet glued to the floor for just a few seconds too long, her mouth slightly agape. The woman must have felt a stare on the point of suction, for she turned her head in Sansa's direction. This was Sansa's cue to take off, but she could hear bikini top chick call out after her,
"Take a picture, it'll last longer!" And then Sansa couldn't tell if the woman yelled, "Prude bitch!" or "Rude bitch!"
Her only option was to keep moving, just keep on moving or get trampled, so that was what she did.
All of a sudden, she heard her friend's high, full laughter, and she quickened her pace forward. She spotted who she was looking for, clamping a hand onto that young woman's shoulder.
"Marg!" she exclaimed, and Margaery turned, the color high her cheeks, a wide smile of amusement upon her face. She had clearly been in the midst of a very entertaining conversation, though, as Sansa happened to look quickly past her, she saw no one facing in their direction.
"Sansa, heeeey!" Margaery sang out cheerfully, seizing her forearm and pulling her closer. "Sansa, say hi to-"
Sansa's words were already charging past Margaery's though, such was Sansa's agitation.
"Margaery, what the hell?! You said you wouldn't do that...I was getting lost in here..." To her mortification, she could feel tears starting to well up. She held them back, and changed the subject, as it belatedly registered that Marg had been beginning to introduce her to someone.
"Wha- who...who did you want me to meet?" she babbled sheepishly.
Margaery stepped to the side, moving the hand that was latched onto Sansa's arm and putting it around her shoulders. Sansa looked at Margaery's face and saw that Margaery was looking down...
At a little person. A man, whose age was hard to judge. Sansa took in the poorly-balanced face; the bulbous, sloping forehead over two mismatched, overly keen eyes; the crooked nose; the golden hair that curled thickly around it like a little lion's mane. She had a sneaking suspicion she knew who this person was. Well, she couldn't recall the name, but Joff...he was related to Joffrey...
"It's Joff's uncle, Sansa."
"Well, there goes making a positive first impression," said the little man dryly, a smile tugging at the corner of one lip.
"Tyrion," Sansa blurted out the name as it came to mind, then blushed. She had never met Tyrion Lannister before, but she'd heard of him, from many sources.
"Tyrion," agreed Margaery, grinning back and forth between the two of them.
He waddled closer to Sansa and held out a stunted arm. Sansa shook the pudgy little hand a the end of it. His eyes were studying her face.
"A pleasure, Miss Stark." His voice was low and solemnly, overly sincere, and it made her uncomfortable. (As, indeed, did everything about him, but she was trying hard to pretend that wasn't true, embarrassed of her ungracious feelings.) She was afraid he was mocking her, somehow. He had such a reputation for being irreverent, and the way he had switched gears so fast- laughing and probably being the consummate witty partygoer only a minute ago- seemed to confirm the general idea people seemed to have of him always being ready to size others up...with sardonic results.
"An overdue pleasure," he went on, releasing her hand with the briefest of squeezes. "I always assumed I would meet you before now, and then I thought I might not meet you at all." He looked back over to Marg. "But maybe that was a foolish thought, since it's well known that you run around with this one, here." He gave a playful tug to the skirt of Margaery's dress, smirking up at her. She gave a little squeal and batted his hand away.
"Oh, stop that, you!"
"Well, i-it's nice to meet you at last," offered Sansa awkwardly, trying to smile. Oh, how she wanted to leave. The knot in her stomach pulled tighter. She hugged herself around her middle, as though that would make the sensation go away, while she drummed her fingers against her hips in time to the music, trying to pass off the gesture as a casual one. She started looking all around her, which she hoped came off as her wanting to drink in the atmosphere because she being really into being there and not just her eyes anxiously darting around because it felt inadvisable to let them rest on anything. She didn't want to attract anyone's attention. Probably least of all, any more from the man standing across from her. And she got sick of always looking to Margaery for approval, always looking at her to take the lead.
"That's kind of you to say," said Tyrion in an even voice after a long pause, calling her attention back to him. She couldn't think of a thing to say back, so she simply smiled tersely.
"Your lovely girlfriend isn't here tonight?" Margaery asked convivially.
Tyrion hesitated.
"I wasn't aware you knew Shae," the man said in a light, lilting tone, though he drew out the sentence as if requesting an explanation.
"Oh," Marg shrugged nonchalantly. "No, I don't, really." She smiled at him. "More like know of her. I'd really like to meet her someday."
Sansa remained silent. She had no idea who this Shae was, besides Tyrion Lannister's girlfriend, apparently. This was the first she'd heard of her. Of course, Margaery had an extremely active social life, and she didn't know everyone Marg knew, or wanted to know.
"She preferred a quiet night at home tonight. I needed to go let off some steam, though," Tyrion disclosed in a languid sort of voice. He was looking all around himself, taking in his surroundings with a much more blase attitude than Sansa could have had, although there might have been something oddly like disapproval in Tyrion's eyes, too. "It's been a rough week at the office."
"I'm sorry to hear that," declared Margaery. She began to sway her hips to the music, though not precisely in time to it, because the manic beat of the song currently playing defied any human hips to keep pace with it. She grinned over at Sansa and gave her a side hug, then kept her arm encircling her waist, playfully bumping hips with her. Sansa, for her part, stood still. "I would have thought you'd at least have your girl to keep you company. I hear she's quite into the nightlife scene."
Tyrion's head slowly rotated back around until he was looking at Margaery again, and there was a chilly wariness in his gaze.
"Now where would you have heard that? I must say, it gets awfully tedious to keep running into implicative remarks from uninformed people who mistakenly believe they know anything about my girlfriend at all."
Margaery unwound her arm from about Sansa's waist and stopped the rhythm-less shaking of her hips. She had a look of concern on her face.
"I'm...sorry, did I say something wrong? I've never heard anyone say anything...insulting about Shae, and I definitely wouldn't attempt to insult her myself."
Tyrion considered the contrite, sweet-faced brunette and continued to look stubborn for a few more moments, and after that, his mouth split into an unreadable smile and he was apparently appeased. Sansa looked to her friend for answers.
But Margaery was looking down quizzically at the wristlet bag she was holding against her thigh. When Sansa strained her ears, she thought she could discern the faintest of buzzing sound. Margaery held up a finger and looked into middle space as she pursed her lips. She placed a hand over her little clutch and said to both her companions,
"H-hang on a second. I need...I need to check something out."
She smiled at them and then promptly ducked through an opening in the crowd, weaving her way through the myriad of bumping, grinding, and drinking people as Sansa's eyes managed, through sheer force of determination, to keep track of her. She seemed to be heading for the wall closest to them, which people were actually giving a bit of a berth, all things considered. Sansa couldn't say she was too happy with Marg leaving her again, and leaving her alone with a Lannister, to boot. However, some of her anxiety had actually abated. She disliked Tyrion on principal, but for some reason, his mere presence wasn't making her feel quite as victimized as she would have expected. Maybe she'd gotten further past her fear than she knew.
"Where's she going now?" Sansa wondered aloud, her eyes tracing Margaery's progress to the wall. She stared at the rose on the brunette's bag and let out an unladylike snort of laughter. Who would have ever thought that Margaery Tyrell would be a wallflower? Her own private joke was a little lame, but she didn't care. She watched Marg hurriedly take her phone out of her purse, poke at the screen, stare at it for a minute while worrying her lip, then tap something quickly into the screen. She then slipped the phone back into her bag and started back toward them.
Something wasn't right. Suddenly Margaery was walking a bit like Bambi, even though Sansa hadn't seen her drink very much that night. She'd had half a glass of chardonnay back at Sansa's apartment, and then had taken a few sips of some kind of thick, pink, tropical mystery drink she'd bought here at The Maidenvault.
Still, when she had rejoined Sansa and Tyrion, Margaery insisted, "I think I need to go home." She pulled a sad face, as though she were disappointing one or both of them. "Suddenly I just feel waaay overheated." She wiped the back of her hand over forehead and slouched. "And I'm, ya know, a little drunk," she finished, giggling.
Sansa furrowed her brow in confusion. What? Drunk? Since when? Quite involuntarily, she looked at Tyrion, and from the skeptical look on his face, she knew he was thinking exactly the same thing. Still, the little man seemed to think that he'd been called upon to do something chivalrous. He gave an ornate bow, flourishing his arm out before him.
"Allow me to escort you ladies outside."
This was quite unnecessary; neither of them was helpless. Even if Margaery was in fact overheated and drunk, she was standing under her own power, and in the past when she could barely do that, Sansa had still managed to lead her out of clubs. Was he thinking for some reason that they needed him to wait with them for safety? Margaery's limo would be around in a minute, and besides...She swept her gaze over his unimpressive stature and thought about how unlikely it was to make a girl feel protected.
They filed through the crowds and to the main entrance, Tyrion out in front and Margaery right behind him, holding onto Sansa's hand as she brought up the rear so they didn't get separated. As they walked, occasionally having to jostle their way past the crush of revelers (Sansa squashing down the irrational but strong instinct to apologize to every one of them even though they wouldn't hear her or likely care), Marg spoke loudly to Tyrion, saying,
"I'm surprised you took on the role of leading us out of here. You don't have the best view to act as a guide."
Sansa gasped, and was thankful that the sound was barely audible even to her. Marg's comment made her uneasy; it seemed like it should be offensive, although she couldn't put her finger on why.
To her further astonishment, Tyrion only laughed. Heartily.
"But I'm sure it won't surprise you to learn that I know this place like the back of may hand, as I've been here many, many times."
Margaery giggled, and so, out of nervousness, did Sansa.
Outside, there was still a line of people waiting to get in, and from the pool of light cast by the neon sign blazing the name of the club from above the door, Sansa read the time on her Citizen watch. It was a quarter to one.
Margaery went over by the curb and whipped out her cell to tell her driver they were ready, and Tyrion turned to Sansa.
"Your friend seems..." He struggled. "Well, she seems.." He cast his eyes upward, as if perhaps trying in vain to read his own forehead, as though the answer to what he thought of Margaery Tyrell was was written there. "I know...she cares about those less fortunate. And she seems to care about you a great deal, too." He smiled at her...kindly, Sansa supposed, but it was such an ugly grin. Why didn't a man as rich as Tyrion Lannister get veneers?
Not to mention, just being near a Lannister again was making her skin crawl. It was like she'd literally become allergic to them.
Nonetheless, Tyrion's words prompted a candid response from Sansa, uttered quite automatically and without intention.
Those less fortunate...and you.
"Is there a difference?" she asked with a snort. And then her mouth promptly fell open in a little 'O' of surprise as she instantly regretted her words. What was she doing, fishing for pity? And from a Lannister? What if he told that to Joffrey, or Cersei? She had no desire to make them happy or to show herself to be weak. Well, even weaker than they already thought she was, anyway.
"I don't know..." said Tyrion, watching her carefully. Too carefully. Sansa shifted on the balls of her feet uncomfortably.
At just that moment, Margaery reappeared, flinging her arm around Sansa's shoulder and leaning against it as if perhaps she did need the support. "The car's being brought around," she said too loudly into Sansa's ear, her weight just a little too heavy against her shoulder, before she attempted to straighten up, wobbling on her heels a bit before entirely managing the task. She toddled back over to the curb and stood there, craning her neck for the sight of the limo.
Sansa literally twiddled her thumbs while she stood next to Joffrey's uncle and awkwardly waited for her ride to drive around the corner. She wanted to go stand beside Marg, but there Tyrion was, right next to her, behaving like he was yet a part of this- whatever this was- and Sansa was, despite the number of times she'd told herself she wasn't going to be a little girl anymore, incapable of offending anyone. She couldn't think of a way to excuse herself without being rude. And so, just like inside the club, she stared all around, letting her gaze flit from one thing to the next. When she happened to glance over at Tyrion, she found him gazing out into the night, looking contemplative, his hands resting on his hips and twitching.
The car pulled up, and Margaery signaled to the driver that he could stay in the car, and she opened the door for herself. Just as Sansa was about to walk forward, Tyrion cleared his throat, and she looked down at him. He was fixing her with an earnest, searching look, and he spoke in a voice so low that she had to bend down to hear him.
"She's far too good for Joffrey. Just like you were. She seems like a smart girl, but you'll tell her to be careful, won't you? You'll look out for her?"
"I...I..." Sansa stuttered, taken aback, and with not much time to come up with a response, as Margaery darted back with an outstretched hand, wrapping it around Sansa's wrist and tugging. "I hope I always do my best for my friends," she found herself saying. Marg threw her a curious look over her shoulder.
Tyrion gave her stiff nod as if that was quite good enough for him.
"Good," he said. He walked behind them to the limo, then after first Margaery, then Sansa, had climbed in, patted the open car door and lifted his hand to his forehead in a salute. "Enjoy the rest of your night, ladies. I'm going back in. I'm not nearly drunk enough yet." He closed the door and Sansa watched as he waddled back toward the entrance to the club.
Marg snagged a bottle of seltzer from the limo's fridge and then fell back into her corner with a tired, yet happy enough sounding sigh.
"What was that about?" The brunette asked, rolling her head against the back of the seat until she was facing Sansa. A curly tendril of her chestnut hair was stuck to her chin, near her mouth, and she reached up and flicked it away impatiently.
Sansa slowly shook her head, not sure of that herself.
"Nothing," she answered as Margaery took the seltzer bottle and put it down her dress, within her cleavage. "He just told me to take care."
"I heard something about your friends," Margaery insisted, starting to fan herself even as the air kicked on and Sansa felt goose pimples prickle her arms. For some reason Margaery was really sticking to this story about being overheated when she must know that Sansa had seen right through that one. Like, she couldn't really think Sansa was that stupid. ...Could she?
"I..." Sansa hesitated but briefly, it taking only a moment to think of a believable little falsehood. That was one of 'ladylike' skills she'd mastered, after all: telling a palatable lie. "He said to look after you and Joffrey." For added credibility, she gave her hair a haughty flip. "He said he could tell I was more responsible than the two of you put together." She shot her friend a teasing smile.
Margaery looked at her for several long moments, her eyes squinted doubtfully. Then she giggled and flopped back in her seat once more. She took the seltzer out from between her boobs and sat it in a cup holder, then tilted her head back and closed her eyes. The car started to move.
"Where to, ladies?" asked the driver, rolling the partition down.
There was a pause. Sansa laid her head back and closed her eyes, too. She'd had nothing to do all day, and she'd liked it that way. But it had made her tired, the way staying in one place all day and being kind of numb can make a person tired. And then Margaery had turned up and dragged her out here, and the simultaneous stress and boredom of that had left her further drained.
She was so tired that when Margaery gave their destination as Olenna Tyrell's house in Pasadena, Sansa gave no objection.
To be continued...