My shift passes fairly uneventfully, alternating pretty evenly between being rushed off my feet and standing around trying to find something to do. Daenerys doesn't show up, which leaves me feeling both relieved and disappointed in equal measure. (Okay, maybe more the latter than the former.) During one of the slower periods, Asha comes over to me.
"Hey, Stark," she says. "You look about ready for a break."
"Um, I guess. I'm happy to wait a bit longer if someone else wants to go, though."
"Now's good. You can join me. Let's go for a walk."
"What? But we're not supposed to… I mean, Mr Baelish is here."
"It's okay if I say it's okay. And Baelish won't say anything if he knows what's good for him. Anyway, we won't be gone long. I'll grab us some drinks for the road. You go and get your coat."
Dread starts to trickle through me like ice water in my veins. Asha wants to talk with me away from everyone else. That sounds like a capital-T Talk to me, and there aren't many things I can think of that she might want to discuss… Does she know about Margaery? Is she going to tell me off about taking advantage of Loras' younger sister? Or could it be something to do with spending the night at Daenerys' house? (She couldn't possibly think that… Could she? No. No, that's ridiculous. I'm being ridiculous. Whatever she wants to talk to me about, it definitely can't be *that*.)
Breathe, Sansa. Just breathe.
Okay. Alright. If Asha was annoyed at me, I wouldn't have to wonder. She's not one for keeping her irritation to herself. If she has a problem with someone, they darn well know about it. So, whatever it's about, it's unlikely to involve a dressing down.
Maybe she just wants to make sure I'm okay. I mean, I was pretty much a mess yesterday. And maybe she's noticed the way Shae's been hovering around me a little today, looking concerned. I certainly noticed. And I appreciate it, really. I just can't help hoping it wasn't so obvious to anyone else. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I really could do without everyone and their dog thinking I'm so fragile I need someone to watch out for me.
(There seem to be an awful lot of people watching out for me these days. It's… kind of nice, actually. I just worry sometimes that's because they think I'm weak.)
Belatedly, I realise that I never told Asha what drink I wanted. Or even offered to pay. (I've really become quite the freeloader lately. All these drinks people keep buying for me. Often as accompaniment to a Talk of some kind… I think I'm spotting a trend.)
Oh! I'd better go and get ready.
Relief fills me as I pull off that awful neckerchief and throw on my skirt and jumper. Those garish tights are still visible through the gap between the hem of my skirt and the top of my boots, but I don't care. It's just so wonderful to feel properly clothed again. (To not feel like some kind of… of *streetwalker*.)
If only the feeling wasn't soured by the nervous anticipation gnawing holes in my stomach.
When I return to the front of the shop, Asha has her coat on and Missandei is putting the finishing touches to our drinks. Well, my drink. I'm guessing the almost-certainly-double-shot espresso is Asha's.
"Mocha okay?" are Asha's only words to me.
"That's great, thank you," I tell her, smiling so she won't think I'm ungrateful. "But you didn't have to-"
"It's cold out there," she says, cutting me off. "Now let's go."
I can't help but notice the curious looks the other three are sending our way. I wonder if I'll have to fend off interested questions from them when we get back. Oh well. At least I'll know what it's about by that point.
Maybe it's something innocuous. LH Soc stuff, perhaps.
Or maybe it's something serious.
Maybe… Maybe I should stop worrying and wait to hear what Asha has to say.
We walk in silence, Asha setting a brisk pace as she leads me through the town. She seems to have a destination in mind and, somehow, I am entirely unsurprised when we end up in front of *that* church, sitting on *that* bench. Well, I sit on the bench. Asha remains standing, leaning on a wall. Apparently this has become my Serious Talk bench after all.
Assuming that this is going to be a Serious Talk.
(It's totally going to be a Serious Talk.)
I look up from my drink to see Asha studying me thoughtfully, maybe even… hesitantly? It takes me a moment to recognise the expression; so alien on her features.
Yes, this is *definitely* going to be a Serious Talk.
I take a fortifying sip of my mocha.
"Margaery's a nice kid," Asha says abruptly, apropos of nothing.
My eyes fly wide open, and I just stare at her, flabbergasted. "Um…?" I wasn't expecting her to just launch right into it! Although, thinking about it, I don't know why I wasn't. This *is* Asha, after all.
"She's not a bad choice for a fling, even a first fling," she continues. A peculiar expression flitters across her face, there and gone again before I can figure out what it is. "Much better than certain people," she mutters.
"Um…" I say again, mentally reeling. (If I was more compos mantis, I'd be tempted to ask Asha what 'certain people' she's talking about — even though I'm pretty sure I know — but I'm completely knocked for six right now. Instead, I tuck the thought away for a time when I'm not so flummoxed.)
She looks me over assessingly. I stare back, feeling like I'm carved from solid ice. Like I'm literally frozen in place, rather than merely figuratively.
"She didn't say anything, don't worry."
I think that's meant to be reassuring, and I guess it is in a way. But it's also *terrifying*, because if Margaery didn't say anything, then how did *Asha* know? Did Shae talk to her? I doubt it. So, then, does *everybody* know? Was it that obvious? Did people know what we were going to do before… before *we* did? (Oh god. Was I giving off signals or something? Did I seem like I… wanted Margaery? Was I acting like one of those girls?)
Asha sighs and sits next to me on the bench. "Loras figured it out when she got back from your place." She shrugs lopsidedly, giving me a tiny, rueful grin. "Apparently he knows his sister pretty well." The grin fades. "Renly figured it out too. And he… wasn't quite as discreet about it as Loras." I inhale sharply, and she puts out a hand as if to stop me running away. Like I could even think about standing right now. "I don't mean that he ran around telling everyone," she says swiftly. "But he apparently said enough. And with the way the two of you were flirting on Sunday…" She shrugs.
Somehow, I manage to find my voice.
"Everyone *knows*?"
"I wouldn't say *everyone*, and I wouldn't say they *know* so much as are making certain assumptions… But, yeah. Most of LH Soc probably knows." She shrugs again, looking like she'd rather be anywhere but here, having this conversation. I know the feeling. "What can I say? People like to gossip, and our society is no exception." She shakes her head and sighs. "Sometimes I think they might be among the worst in that regard."
"But…" Even though I'm outside, it feels like walls are contracting around me, caging me in. My skin feels taut and prickly — like I've been rolling in stinging nettles — and I can't seem to catch my breath.
Everyone *knows*. They know that… They know…
What must they think of me? How am I ever going to look any of them in the eyes again? How am I going to be able to look at *Loras* knowing that… that…
Oh god. I can never go back there again.
"Sansa. Sansa, look at me." I'm only dimly aware of Asha's voice filtering through the haze of panic and self-loathing. I try to make myself focus on her voice, look at her like I'm not shattering into a million tiny pieces right now, but it's just too hard. "Sansa!"
She barks out my name like an order, like the crack of a whip, the unexpected command snapping me out of my fugue. The breath I draw into aching lungs feels like my first one in a while. No wonder Asha sounds worried.
"Sorry," I whisper through dry lips. I clear my throat and try again, meeting her gaze with something approximating a smile. "I spaced out for a moment there, but I'm okay. You don't need to worry."
I'll figure this out somehow. Although I can't for the life of me think how.
Asha shows her opinion of my last statement by snorting derisively and muttering: "Don't need to worry, my left tit." She frowns at me. "You're as white as a sheet. Drink your mocha."
I obey numbly, barely even tasting the sugary confection. It feels a tad ungracious to pay so little attention to Missandei's craftsmanship, not to mention like I'm not showing the proper amount of appreciation for Asha's gift, but I can't bring myself to care too much right now.
"Thanks for the drink," I say mechanically, unable to remember if I've thanked her already.
"You're welcome," she says, and then lets out a short, sharp bark of laughter. "It seemed like the least I could do when I was dropping this news." She shrugs. "Loras asked me to talk to you," she continues quietly, not looking at me. "He thought you'd appreciate knowing that your night with Margaery wasn't precisely a secret. He thought you'd want to know. And so did I. I know I'd sure as shit want to know about it if it was me."
No. No, I don't want to know. I wish I could just forget the whole thing, forget Asha even breathed a word to me. I'd be happier in blissful ignorance, still believing my private life to be private. Secret. Hidden. Believing that no one was whispering about me behind their hands. Laughing at me. (Despising me.)
Except…
Except it couldn't last, could it? Someone would say something, drop some hint, ask loaded questions. I'd realise eventually. And then how much of a fool would I feel? It's bad enough right now, being slapped in the face with my own ignorant naiveté. Days, weeks or even months down the line it would be so much worse.
"You're right," I say, matching her quiet, serious tone. "I'd rather know."
"Good," she says, seeming to relax her shoulders the tiniest amount. I hadn't even realised she was tense. I guess this can't exactly be pleasant for her, either. She raises one hand, and I brace in anticipation of one of her hearty backslaps, but all she does is place it lightly on my shoulder for a moment or two. For Asha, that's positively tender. "You don't need to worry," she says. "You'll probably have to put up with a few ribald comments for a while — mainly from Renly, unless Loras manages to rein him in — but they'll forget soon enough. Someone else will do something else gossip-worthy and then it'll be their turn in the limelight. You'll see. It's not the end of the world."
Will it really be that easy? I was expecting (to be punished for my transgressions) that there would be consequences to being found out, although I'm not too sure what I was expecting those to be. This seems an awful lot like getting off lightly.
I can't help wondering when the other shoe's going to drop.
"I guess," I say, belatedly realising that I should probably say *something*. I wouldn't want Asha to think I was suffering another malfunction.
"You okay?" she says, after a while.
I take a drink to give myself time to turn the question over in my mind.
"I think so." I heave a deep sigh, wondering how long it's going to take me to face anyone from LH Soc without blushing. "Embarrassed," I say with feeling. As for Loras… It doesn't even bear thinking about. But I was thinking of talking to him, wasn't I? Maybe I should ask Asha about that.
"Why embarrassed?" I stare at her, completely lost for words. How can she even ask that? Why *wouldn't* I be embarrassed? Everyone saw me throwing myself at Margaery. Everyone knows I went to bed with her. What *isn't* embarrassing about that? "Because people know you had sex?" Asha asks. I nod. Her eyes narrow. "Because they know you had sex with a girl?" I nod again, more hesitantly this time.
(I hope she doesn't think badly of me for being embarrassed about that. I hope she doesn't tell me off like Daenerys did.)
She snorts loudly, knocking back the rest of her coffee and giving me a sardonic grin. "Hell, Sansa, don't you know the LH Soc crowd at all? They're more likely to envy you than disapprove. So, you're getting your end away. Good for you! Hip-hip-fucking-hooray."
"Um…" But I don't *have* an, um, 'end'. And even if I did, what does 'getting it away' even mean? I think about saying something, but decide that discretion is the better part of valour.
Some questions are better off unasked.
"Look. I can't say you won't be mocked. You know and I know that some of our fellow re-enactors are truly irreverent motherfuckers. But no one's going to be mean-spirited about it, not if they know what's good for them. And if anyone does take it too far, send them to me and Loras. We'll make sure to set them straight."
"Loras?" My eyes widen in shock. I laugh a little nervously. "I can't imagine I'm his favourite person right now. Why would he stick up for me?"
"Because you despoiled his baby sister?" she asks, bluntly. I wince, giving a jerky nod. Asha laughs heartily, clapping me solidly on the shoulder. (That's the Asha I know.) "Oh, please," she scoffs. "I don't know what she might have said to you, but Margaery is no blushing maiden. And Loras does know his own sister. Trust me, he was more worried about *you*."
"Oh," I say softly, feeling my spirits start to lift a little. Maybe he doesn't think badly of me after all. I suppose he did ask Asha to have a word, but that could mean anything. Maybe he just wants me to know that he knows. Maybe he's plotting his revenge even as we…
Okay, now I'm being ridiculous. No matter how badly I'm freaking out, not even the voices in my head can convince me that Loras is plotting some dastardly vengeance against me. I know him better than that.
"So, are you good now?" Asha wants to know. She hesitates a moment, and then adds: "If you need to… talk… or anything, you can talk to me." She says 'talk' like it's a dirty word. "I'm not good with touchy-feely shit, but I can listen. If you've got questions, I can try to answer them." Her lips twist in a brief, lopsided grin. "Believe it or not, what you're going through isn't completely alien to me. And, most importantly, I can and will tell you when you've got your head stuck up your arse."
Much to my surprise, I find myself smiling back at her. "Thanks," I say, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. I know Shae said I shouldn't talk to Asha about this, but it actually doesn't seem to be going at all badly. I could really come to appreciate her no-nonsense brand of sympathy. Besides, I think she's actually trying to be tactful. And — certainly by her standards — succeeding. Maybe this is the time to ask how best to talk to Loras about 'courting' Margaery. I try to figure out how to phrase the question, but what actually ends up coming out of my mouth is: "Do you think I'm a slut?"
Oh.
That wasn't what I was planning to ask at *all*. Not even close! But… I guess it's something I've kind of been worrying about, a little. (Okay, a lot.) And I couldn't ask Daenerys; I just *couldn't*. Especially not after the… unpleasantness… over what happened with Jeyne. What if she thinks badly of me? (What if the answer is yes?)
But Asha… I don't want her to think badly of me either, of course, but at least the mere thought of it doesn't make me feel panicky and sick. (Not like when I remember that cold, hard look in Daenerys' eyes. Not like when I imagine her deciding that she doesn't want to be friends any more. Not when I think about losing her.) Actually… I think Asha might be the only person I *can* ask.
Which is just as well, because the words are already out there and I can't take them back.
And Asha's reaction is… to stare blankly at me.
And stare.
And stare some more.
Oh no. That's a bad sign, isn't it? It means the answer is yes, but she's trying to figure out how to say that tactfully. She thinks…
I bite my lip.
"What?" she says blankly, and I belatedly realise that the expression on her face isn't censure but, rather, shock.
She's… surprised by the question?
"Because I…" I can't say it, not again, not even euphemistically. Slept with. Had sex with. F… Nonono. *No*. No, I can't. I just can't. "You know," I say instead, flailing my hands around as if that will distract from the sheer awkwardness of this. Like a magician using sleight of hand to make the audience look in the wrong direction. (But if I was that magician, I'd fumble the pass and drop the whatever-it-is with a crash, drawing attention to the very thing I was trying to hide. And I think this metaphor's gotten away from me now.) "With Margaery," I clarify. "After… After only knowing her for two days." One and a half, really, but I can't bring myself to correct that. But Asha is still staring at me, so I repeat my original question, torn between hoping she'll answer this time and actively dreading her reply. "Do you think I'm a-" I choke on the word, my throat constricting so that, when I finally manage to make myself finish, it emerges barely above a whisper. "A slut?"
She shakes her head, and my heart leaps, but then I realise that's not her answer. It's more like she's trying to clear her mind, or jolt her thoughts into gear. (The kind of thing it seems I'm always having to do these days. When did my life get so brain-breaking?)
"*Fuck*!" she exclaims, the harsh sound of the expletive seeming to echo like a gunshot in an alleyway; making me jump, making me gasp, bringing me to the edge of fight-or-flight. (Not that I ever fight. No, not that I ever *used to* fight. Now? Now, there's a chance things might go differently.) Which is beyond ridiculous, because this is Asha, not (him)… not anyone who might hurt me.
(When will I stop twitching like a scared rabbit — like a mouse, like a *coward* — every time there's a loud noise or a sudden movement? It will happen, won't it? Sooner or later? Or am I destined to be a jittery bag of nerves for the rest of my life?)
(No, I won't believe that. I won't let myself believe it. It *will* get better.)
(Eventually.)
"Where do I even begin?" Asha murmurs, after what feels like a lifetime. With that distant tone, it sounds more like she's talking to herself than to me. She draws in an audible breath and meets my gaze. Even knowing better (even though she's not Daenerys), it's all I can do not to flinch away in anticipation of her despite, but her eyes hold nothing like that. I can't read everything that lies in their depths, but I think there's kindness there. Sympathy, maybe. (Sorrow?) Something soft and gentle, not piercing and hard. "You were a virgin, weren't you?" I nod, not trusting my voice enough to attempt speech. "Well, I think we can safely say that a single one-night stand doesn't make you a slut." I start to relax, but she's not done yet. "But even if you were, why would that be bad?"
Now it's my turn to stare in shock.
"I, um, it… Well… It just would." A frown line develops between her eyes. "Wouldn't it?" I ask, uncertainly.
"Why?"
"Well, because…" I'm thoroughly confused now, struggling to put a coherent response together. I've never had to… I mean, isn't it obvious? Isn't it just one of those things that everybody knows? But it's clear she's not going to accept 'it just is' as a reason. "Good girls just don't… don't do that kind of thing."
"Have sex, you mean?"
I can't help it; I cringe a little at the matter-of-fact way she says that without hiding behind euphemisms or trailing off into silence or any of the things I often find myself doing, even in the privacy of my own head. Even as I flinch away from it, I can't help admiring her for that.
I nod. "At least not with people they barely know," I whisper.
"Why not?"
"Well, it's just not… I mean, people will think they're…" I trail off, realising that line of argument leads nowhere. Sure enough, she pounces on it like a cat with a mouse.
"People will think they're sluts, you mean?" I nod (flinching a little at that word), already knowing what she's going to say. She raises an eyebrow. "Bit recursive, isn't it?"
"I'm not explaining very well," I say. (I'm not used to having to explain something that I know to be true. That I thought everyone knew to be true.) "I think… It should…" Okay, I can do this. It's just a word. I'm an adult, regardless of how much I sometimes feel like a child. I can say one little word. "Sex should mean something, shouldn't it? Something special. A connection *with* someone special." I shy away from saying the word love, let alone *true* love, but it's what I'm thinking. "But how can it be special if it's something you do just because… because… because you…"
(Because *I*…)
Oh.
"Because you want to?" she asks. I nod, unable to speak right now. "Because it feels good?" she continues. I nod again. She shrugs. "Might be true for some people. Not all. Anyway, it's more complicated than that.
Apropos of nothing, I suddenly remember that, like Daenerys, Asha is a member of the university debating society. That… explains a lot. About both of them.
"Anyway," she continues, her clipped tone growing more intense, more… passionate? "Philosophical wankery aside: sex isn't a bad thing. Having sex doesn't make you a bad person. *You're* not a bad person because you had sex with Margaery."
I shift uncomfortably on the bench, fidgeting restlessly. If my face gets any hotter, I think I might just spontaneously combust. Even *Asha* seems… not embarrassed — I'm not sure she's even capable of the emotion — but… a little uncomfortable.
"Hmmm," I say, trying to give the impression of agreeing with her.
"Not convinced, are you?" she asks, after a moment.
"I, um…" I don't know how to answer that. "I'm sorry."
I'm not even sure what I'm apologising for, but it feels necessary. Necessary, and yet wholly inadequate.
"No fucking apologies," Asha snaps out in response, her words quiet yet forceful. "Not over this," she adds in a gentler tone.
I almost say sorry again, but manage to stop myself just in time. Not in time to stop her noticing, though. "Almost apologised for apologising, didn't you?" Her lips twist into a bitter sort-of smile, acridly amused.
"No."
"Bullshit," she says, but mildly. Like she can't quite bring herself to call me out properly on my blatant lie. She's quiet for a moment — we both are, each apparently lost in our own thoughts — but then she speaks again. "Look, Sansa. I might not know exactly what your life has been like, but I reckon I can make a good guess. Traditional parents, right?" She grimaces. "Like mine. Well, my da." My ears prick up at that, seizing on this hint that, contrary to appearances, she didn't spring fully formed and adult from a progenitor's brow. I want to ask more, but she keeps talking, leaving no opportunity for questions. "Bet you were fed all kinds of shit about your place in life, about what's right and proper for a girl of your station. And a whole bunch of that revolved around being 'good.' That is: chaste, polite and *nice*. Am I right?"
Yes. Completely and utterly right. If she were any more right we'd be going round in circles.
"I guess so," I say slowly.
"And don't even get me started on all the media wank-splatter we're immersed in on a daily basis," she says, scowling.
"Um, I won't," I hasten to assure her, trying not to pull a disgusted face. I swear, she comes up with the most revolting terms sometimes.
"Point is," she says. "When you're growing up, you're immersed in this… this culture of conformity. You're told you have to look a certain way, act a certain way, *be* a certain way. Even if all the ways you're supposed to be are contradictory, fucked up, or flat out unattainable for any sane and normal human being. And if you don't measure up, you're a freak. It's fucking *toxic*!" I blink at her, feeling a little lost. Are we still talking about sex? "Sex is part of that," she says, like she's reading my mind. "Chaste. Pure. Virtuous. Frigid. Slut. Harlot. Whore." She gives me a tight, bitter smile. "Compare and contrast: stud, player, gigolo. Get the picture?"
"I… think so," I say, frowning. But this isn't anything I didn't already know, I want to tell her. I *know* it's different for girls. Why does she think I'm so worried about people knowing? I don't want to get a bad reputation. Is she trying to say it's unfair? I know *that* already. But that doesn't mean I can just ignore it.
Does it?
"It's about control," she says, thumping the arm of the bench for emphasis. I fight the urge to wince in sympathy with the inanimate object. Or with her hand, even though she doesn't even seem to notice the impact. "It's about getting us to internalise those fucked up values because we don't have the vocabulary to frame it any other way. It's about making us too scared to claim our own sexuality."
I frown, turning her words over in my mind.
"Maybe that's true," I say hesitantly, not sure how she's going to react. Heck, I'm still not entirely sure what I feel about what she said until I start trying to put it into words. "But what does that have to do with… with my situation? I mean, maybe society does have some warped views on sex. And… and maybe we should be trying to change that. I don't know." And even that vague questioning sentiment feels strangely daring for me. I even said the word sex without blushing! "But people think that way right now. And they judge. And I…" I shrug helplessly, not even close to being able to articulate properly what I mean. "I don't want people to think I'm a slut."
She's quiet for a while. Long enough for me to regret my words. Long enough for me to imagine the worst. When she does finally open her mouth to speak, I cringe in anticipation of a scathing indictment of the kind of coward who cares what other people think of her. A coward like me.
"It's alright to care what other people think of you." Ooookay. I was *not* expecting that. "There's nothing wrong with keeping your private life private. What you do — and who you do it with — is no one's damn business but yours and the other people involved." I… guess I have heard her express similar thoughts before, but I never thought… I mean, she always seems to do what she wants and be who she wants without giving two hoots for what anyone else might say. It's one of the things I admire about her. "But," she continues, and I might have known there'd be one of those coming. "Don't think badly of *yourself*. Don't internalise their poison. Do you understand?"
"I'm… not sure I do. Sorry."
"Okay, think of it this way. Say it's your cherished dream to fuck your way through half the halls on campus." I can feel my eyebrows shoot up somewhere by my hairline, my mouth already opening in protest. "Relax," she adds before I can speak. "Just a random example. I know you're not planning a 'Sansa does campus' tour." I subside again, trying to hide how deeply uncomfortable I am with this line of conversation. "But if you were," she continues. "I'd say go for it. Whatever floats your boat. Just don't think of *yourself* as a slut. Not in the ugly way this fucked up society tells us we should. Okay?"
Frowning a little, I nod slowly. I think I see what she's saying, but…
She studies me for a moment, and then nods to herself.
"Okay, think about the other extreme," she says. "Say you want to live a chaste and virginal life. Fucking-A. Or, not-fucking-A. It's all good. But don't think of yourself as frigid, or prudish, or any of the other words used to shame us. Don't think it makes you less of a person."
("Are you frigid or something?")
Ohhhhh…
I'd never thought of it like that before. Damned if you do, and damned if you don't? I guess it is just two sides of the same coin. But… surely being a slut is worse than being a prude. Isn't it?
I just don't know any more.
Asha is still talking, so I hurriedly make myself focus on her words, rather than spiralling off into thoughts about what it all means.
"Point is. Virginal, promiscuous and everything in between: it's up to you. Want to shout it from the rooftops? Also up to you. Keep it quieter than a mime convention? A-fucking-men. Because people judge like motherfuckers, and you don't have to put up with that shit if you don't want to. Do whatever the fuck you want, just *own* your choices. And don't beat yourself up over them." She bares her teeth in a fierce, feral grin. "Trust me; there are more than enough cunts out there who are willing to do it for you."
I think about it. I think about it some more. And some more.
"So… It's okay to not want other people to think I'm a slut, but *I* shouldn't think I'm one? At least not in a bad way?"
"Close enough," she says. "At least for now."
This is a lot to take in, and I'm going to have to think through what it means; if it changes anything. (I'm not sure it does, not really. It's all very well for her to tell me not to think badly of myself, but that's easier said than done.)
(It really is so very hard, sometimes.)
"You've certainly given me a lot to think about," I murmur.
Just… not right at the moment.
"Good," she says, flashing me a grin before her expression sobers. "Listen," she says softly. "I know you're… friends with Dany and all, but it might be best not to talk about this with her."
"What? Why?" Not that I was really planning on it, but…
Asha shrugs. "It's human nature to judge, but some judge more than most. Probably best just to avoid a potential minefield."
Is she…? Is she saying Daenerys *does* think I'm a slut? Or that she'd scoff of me for caring what people think of me? I guess I can see the second one, but… I've never really thought of Daenerys as the judgemental type. Maybe this is Asha's history with her talking? Or… maybe it isn't.
Anyway, it's kind of a moot point, because I have no intention whatsoever of asking Daenerys if she thinks I'm… like that. Not in a million years. So where's the harm in agreeing?
"Okay."
"Good." She looks relieved. We sit there for a little while, side by side, finishing off our coffees. I'm just starting to wonder how long we've been out here when she speaks again, making me jump. "So," she says, in a much lighter tone. "Do I need to have a word with Margaery about despoiling *you*?"
"What? No!" I shake my head vehemently, willing her to believe me. The *last* thing I need right now is her having a 'word' with Margaery. It was bad enough when Daenerys tried to protect me from *Reza*. "It wasn't like that. I was the one who started things! She didn't…"
She didn't do anything I didn't want her to.
"Don't get your knickers in a twist," she says quickly, cutting across my increasingly panicked — and increasingly high-pitched — yammering. "I was joking. Mostly. Getting involved in this kind of situation can easily turn into a multi-orifice clusterfuck of epic proportions. Not something I'd do lightly, and certainly not if I wasn't damn sure you needed me to stick my oar in." She eyes me speculatively. "Guessing you're more likely to tell me to fuck off." She grins. "Well, more like 'Asha, would you kindly not interfere in my love life,' but the sentiment's the same."
"Um, yeah," I murmur distractedly. "Thank you."
The bulk of my attention is elsewhere, on the words I didn't say, the words running through my head like a refrain.
Margaery didn't do anything I didn't *want* her to.
I wanted to…
I wanted *her*.
I…
'But I'm not like that,' whispers a voice in my mind, less certain now. Not attracted to girls. Not the kind of girl who has sex with someone she's just met. Not the kind of girl who has sex at *all*.
But what if…?
(What if I've been wrong all this time? What if this wasn't just some aberration? What if it wasn't just an alcohol-induced failure of judgement or morals or character?)
(What if this is who I really am?)
"Sansa?" Asha's voice breaks through my haze, making me jump, startling me right out of my wool-gathering.
"Sorry!" I yelp, mortified to realise that I must have been staring blankly into space like some kind of daydreaming fool.
"Away with the fairies again?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Thinking," I say softly. "I, um, have a lot to think about."
"No shit, Sherlock," she drawls. "But you can think about it while you work. It's time we got back."
She starts to stand up, but I hold out a hand. "Wait!" It's now or never. "Um…"
"Spit it out, Stark," she says, impatiently. Weirdly, rather than making me nervous (even more nervous), her familiar brusqueness actually relaxes me a little.
"I'd like to do something nice for Margaery," I say, all in a rush.
"Seems to me like you already did," she says, smirking.
I blush furiously.
"No, I mean… I want to do something…" I try to think of a different word, any other word than the one that's on the tip of my tongue, but I can't, so I grimace mentally and go ahead. "Something romantic. But I'm not sure what she'd want. So I thought I could maybe ask Loras? Because he'd probably be able to tell me. But… But…"
"But you don't know how to ask him if you can pick his brains about what floats his sister's boat," she states, rather than asks. She's looking at me oddly, but I don't know why.
"Um, yes." I shrug. "I was hoping you could tell me how I should approach him."
"Pick up the phone and ask him."
My heart starts racing at the very thought.
"Um!" I temporise frantically.
Asha sighs. "Or send him an e-mail asking if you can have a chat. He'll agree. He's too chivalrous not to."
I can't tell if she means that as a compliment or a criticism. Maybe both.
"Thanks. And, um, how do I ask him…?" I wave my hand around as if that will somehow provide the clarity my words seem to lack right now.
"Fuck's sake, Stark! Just ask him. Tell him what you told me. He's a nice guy; you're not going to piss him off just by asking a question." She shakes her head. "I don't think you're even capable of pissing him off. You're just as nice as he is!"
She sounds disgusted by the thought, but I find myself smiling.
"Thanks. I'll do that. And… thank you for this talk." Awkward though it was in places. Okay, pretty much all the way through.
"Had to be done," she says, shrugging. "Don't thank me for being the bearer of bad tidings."
I want to disagree, to tell her that it wasn't all bad news. And she really didn't *have* to do anything at all. But something tells me that would make her uncomfortable, so I settle for smiling at her as I get to my feet. We start back for Hot Coffee, but before we've gone more than a few steps, it's Asha's turn to stop me.
"Be careful," she says, her voice quiet and serious. "It's… easy to confuse sex and love, especially when you're young, but Margaery… I'm not sure she's looking for 'happy ever after' right now. If ever. You understand?"
"I… I think so." It means I'm right! Spending the night with Margaery really *wasn't* about sex. It was love! True Love! I was just confused. And now I'm not. I smile broadly at Asha, trying to communicate without words just how much she's clarified things for me.
"Just as long as you don't get your hopes up too much," she cautions, still seeming dubious.
"I'm not," I promise her. "I won't."
Honestly, I don't expect anything from Margaery. I'm happy just to feel this way, to know that True Love exists and that I've managed to find it. (It's certainly so much simpler than the alternative. Than any of the alternatives.) And that's the important thing. Buoyed by a sudden burst of joie de vivre, I practically skip down the street, leaving Asha a little way behind me.
"Come on, slow coach," I call back to her, my smile feeling more like a smirk; the expression foreign on my lips. "Old age slowing you down?"
"That a challenge, Stark?"
Asha sounds fiercely amused, and I'm giddy enough to answer: "Maybe!" and take off running.
And even though I hear her shout "Cheating bitch!" as her feet pound the pavement behind me, I can tell that she's laughing as she says it. I can't help laughing in response.
It's not like all my problems have been magically solved, or everything is suddenly perfect, but right now none of that matters.
Because maybe I can't outrun my troubles. And maybe I can't just hide under layers and layers of denial any longer. But right now, the only thing I care about is winning this race.
Right now I feel… free.
(And the only thing that could possibly make this moment better is if Daenerys was here to help me celebrate my victory.)