Sansa lay awake, tossing and turning through the night. She was so frustrated. Of course, that had been why he'd taken such specific care. He cared for her. Of course, he did. And he'd never even suggested it. She was sure he was afraid. She was sure... She was sure... She wasn't sure what she was sure of anymore, except that Lord Tyrion was snoring in the same room as her. She slid from the bed and peeked her head out between the curtains. He looked so cold, curled into himself on the piece of furniture that was much too small to be considered a bed clutching the wine tightly to himself. She took a soft blanket and a pillow from the bed and walked toward him, removing the vessel from his hands and placing it on the table, then covered him, tucking the pillow beneath his head. At least now, she thought, he doesn't seem so fitful. She looked at the red line that dragged across his face, no longer appearing to be open.
The balcony seemed to call to her, so she ventured outside, leaving the door slightly ajar in case it would lock behind her. She sat on the ground for who knows how long until the sky morphed from deep navy to grey to pink, yellow and finally blue as the sun crept over the horizon. She wondered if Arya was awake and watching the same sunrise. Or Jon. The thought warmed her a little. Sansa wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them tightly, resting her chin upon them and trying, uselessly, to find a position that didn't cause the new bruising on her ribs to ache. But that was behind her. It seemed fitting that she watched the sunrise as a new chapter of her life dawned. A life with Tyrion. A life with a man who, by all possibilities might have loved her.
I'm his soulmate, she thought to herself. I'm his soulmate and he didn't tell me. She thought about the first time she saw him and how he'd kept her attention, even though they never spoke. Later, at the feast, how he'd dashed from the room when her engagement to Joffrey had been announced. The first time they'd spoken, just a few weeks earlier at the tourney kicking off the celebrations for Joffrey's name day. In all the commotion the night prior, she hadn't gotten the chance to see her words on his chest. She tried to remember what the first thing they'd said to one another was. She remembered that Joffrey had spoken between them. Hers were probably something brutal about loving Joffrey and her family being traitors but all she could hear was Tyrion's voice in her head saying "My Lady, I'm sorry for your loss." She could hear his first words to her so clearly in her head that it startled her. She knew she was years away from her mark, so she'd have to push the idea aside, for now, but what if...
Tyrion awoke with a start, momentarily forgetting about his sudden change of rooms. He took in the lodgings carefully, trying to remember what brought him there, and noticed a letter slid under the door. He rose to pick it up and the room spun, sending him back to his seat. He tried again, successfully this time. He broke the wax seal, only to find a grave reminder of what he'd done. The note was from his father, congratulating him on his pending nuptials and the lovely bride he'd found, alerting him that they were to be wed in three days time to give appropriate time for a honeymoon before King Joffrey's wedding to the Tyrell girl. He rubbed his eyes harshly. Of course, Tywin had a backup plan. As everything prior that caused the relocation swam back into his mind, he wondered when he'd found a blanket and a pillow and... the curtains were open, the bed was empty, the door to the balcony... He moved toward it, trying desperately to remain unheard.
"It appears I will have to continue to apologize to you, My Lord," Sansa spoke, not even bothering to turn around to investigate the noise. She was acutely aware of the man in the room. "Last night, you took a great personal risk for someone who has hardly shown you the time of day. Largely out of self-preservation, mind you," she covered her face in her folded arms, desperate to hide her exhaustion, "what little self there is left. I don't know how to react."
Sighing at his inept attempt at secrecy, Tyrion stepped out into the dawn, proffering the letter to Sansa. "Well, it appears we'll have little time to react. We're to be wed in just three days time."
"Oh," she said, not bothering to read it, only turning it over in her hands numbly.
Finally allowing himself to truly watch her for the first time, Tyrion found himself embarrassed. The young woman, even in her disheveled state- Had she slept at all?- was even more breathtaking than he'd ever allowed himself to think. Her long, auburn hair flowed freely against the beautiful golden gown with the black stags running along the bottom hem, clearly meant for Joffrey. Her striking blue eyes, so solemn now, still stirred his pulse as he wished for her to look at him. Her pale skin seemed to shimmer in the newly risen sun. He was completely dazzled by her. "My father is, apparently, eager to see his only viable heir wed to a suitable match and looks forward to our continued good fortune in the Lannister Dynasty," he quoted.
Sansa was at a loss. All she could do was repeat her previous statement. "Oh." It didn't seem as flippant as the first one, but it still wasn't the enthusiasm one hoped for when discussing marriage with a beautiful woman they cared deeply for.
"Indeed," Tyrion said, circling to kneel in front of her. "My Lady, I know this isn't exactly what you had in mind, but Sansa, please understand," he urged, willing her to look at him, "you are safe now. I want nothing from you. I only know that I could not allow-"
Unable to take his incessant rambling anymore, Sansa interrupted him. "You love me. You say you want nothing, My Lord, but-"
"My Lady, please listen to me," he said, finally earning her attention. "You are more than I could ever have hoped for. You are more beautiful than I deserve. You are kinder than should be allowed to exist within this city." She rolled her eyes, disinterested in his praise. Praise meant nothing to her. She wanted something honest. Something that didn't sound like empty words meant to placate Joffrey's broken toy. "What I need for you to understand is whatever I may feel for you is not important. I have had years to come to terms with the fact that the person that the Gods have chosen for me will not love me." Sansa furrowed her brows at his words. He corrected himself. "Cannot love me. I saw my fourteen-year-old nephew's name scarred into my flesh and did not smart. It followed my life's trajectory. You may already know this to be true," he admitted, not allowing himself meet her now focused stare, "but my family is not particularly fond of me and to be destined to fall in love with someone who could never want me seemed fitting. But at this point, my stance on the matter is a little more clear from the outside. I wish to know how you feel about this," he said, finally locking eyes with her and cursing himself for not looking up sooner.
"My Lord-" Sansa started, softly.
"Tyrion, please. Just Tyrion," he corrected.
The girl gave a half smile. "Tyrion," she restarted, noting the strangeness of the informal greeting but not finding it as terrifying as she'd have expected, "I doubt very much that I will be able to live up to the expectations you've set. I will do my very best not to disappoint you, My Lo-" he tilted his head, gently reminding her,
"Tyrion. I don't want this to be any harder on either of us than it has to be."
He reached out, eyes asking permission he couldn't bring his voice to. When she didn't protest, he lay his hand atop hers, "I promise you one thing, My Lady." He held her gaze a moment longer. "I won't ever hurt you."
Sansa swallowed hard and Tyrion revoked his hand. "I believe that." The pair remained in fragile silence for some time before Sansa spoke again. "May I..." she gestured to the spot on his chest where his mark resided. "May I?" she asked.
Realizing what she had asked, Tyrion shook himself back into the present. "Oh. I suppose you've every right to," he said, pulling his tunic aside and baring his chest with her handwriting upon it for her to do with as she pleased. "They're your words, after all." Tentatively, and desperately trying not to betray the throb in her side with so much as a wince, she repositioned herself to move closer, first reading them over once, twice, five, ten times. She couldn't believe it. This poor man had really been branded with 'I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.' For years before he'd ever lain eyes on her, he had to have been in such pain, wrapping his head around the different ways that could be said. Her eyes flicked toward his for a moment, wondering how many times they might have turned sad over her before he even had a face to match to the words and how tortured he must have felt hearing her say similar things over and over. She wondered if he'd known she never once meant them. She raised her hand slowly and as gently as she could muster trailed her fingers across them. Every hair on Tyrion's body stood on end. "My Lady, I only have one regret in this whole matter."
"Which is?" she asked, genuinely wondering how he could have any regrets in that moment.
"That I did not come to you sooner and grant you some choice in the matter. Rest assured, my lady, that from this point forward, at no part will I let your agency be stripped away from you again." For some reason, Sansa believed that, too. Or at least, believed that he would try. "Now, it appears that you are again chained to whom-"
"I'll not resist this," she insisted.
"My Lady-"
She sighed. "Sansa. If you're going to insist on my use of your name, I can only hope that you'll do the same."
Tyrion gave in easily, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Alright then, Sansa. I will not force another moment upon you," he said, rising from his knees to ready himself for the day. "I suspect that, for the next three days, we'll see very little of each other. But after our wedding day, please, know that we have all the time in the world." He moved to go inside but stopped. He did have one more thing to say. He turned back to face Sansa, who still watched him with a chillingly quiet intensity. "If you would do me the honor of growing to trust me. If we could be friends... Do you think that, perhaps, we could aim for that?" Considering all that had been asked of her previously, the woman thought that that was the least that she could do. Surely, she wouldn't call him a friend now, and perhaps trust was a strong word, but there was no malevolence in her feelings toward him. In fact, he was the only person in King's Landing that truly held a positive impression on her. She nodded, trying to signal that that much had already been done. "Good. Until next time, Sansa."
Sansa spent the rest of that day largely alone. Her handmaiden found her and gave her a warm hug and Sansa hissed as she jarred her side. The girl had been frightened that Sansa had been killed after she'd heard what happened with Joffrey's mark. Apparently, however, word of her new quarters and the man she shared them with hadn't gotten around, of which she was slightly grateful. They'd all know before the day was out, but at least her morning would be spent in relative peace. The girl drew Sansa a bath and Sansa retrieved a few of her essentials from her trunk: bath oils, a skin cream, and a fresh bar of soap. Once she slipped into the tub, she felt herself truly relax for the first time in ages. She scrubbed the previous day off and let the lavender scented steam encase her. When she finished, she stepped out of the tub and dried, applying the lotion all over her body and wondered how long it would take this fresh round of bruises, that would likely be her last, to heal. Hopefully, not too long, she thought, eager to be done with it. She let her mind wander to thoughts of a happy marriage. Tyrion mightn't be a conventional choice for a husband, but the more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that they could potentially be good to one another. She still struggled with the idea of trusting him fully and he seemed so scared of something she couldn't quite name. She lay on the bed and let herself drift to sleep. When she eventually rose, she decided, against logic, that she would only top her shift with her dressing gown since she didn't plan to leave her quarters. She began reorganizing her belongings into places she thought they should go, rearranging the furniture into a more pleasant order, busying herself on making her quarters- their quarters, she corrected- more homey. Suppertime came and past and Tyrion didn't return. The thought wasn't particularly troublesome, but as it drew later, the thought that Joffrey might come searching for her set in and she grew impatient for her soon-to-be husband's return. She sat in the bed for quite some time, trying to distract herself with needlework, reading, anything, before finally drifting back to sleep for the night.
Tyrion had stayed in his study for quite some time after his duties were finished, trying desperately not to intrude on the poor girl whose life he'd so rudely uprooted the night prior. The poor girl who, despite all intelligible logic, would be his bride in just two days. The poor girl who the Gods had deemed his soulmate. So, even though his heart raced at the prospect, why did his stomach churn so? When he finally made his way back to their room, well after midnight, he was unsurprised to find Sansa asleep. What did surprise him was her position. She was atop the blankets, still in her dressing gown, book, and needlework on the bed beside her. He wouldn't let himself believe she'd been waiting up for him, but if he let himself imagine it, it engulfed him. He wouldn't let himself believe that she could be so easily swayed. She was so young, so perfect. He gazed at her for a moment, striking the needlework and book from the bed, then reentered the living area to find the blanket and pillow left folded on the settee. If he was going to come back- If he had decided to sleep there, she wanted him to be comfortable.
He readied himself for sleep and prepared his makeshift bed, silently praying and thanking the Gods for the first time since he'd realized that words appeared on his flesh at all. That night, Tyrion prayed to the Father that he could be as good to Sansa as she deserved and that Joffrey served penance for all his wrongdoings against her. He thanked the Mother for allowing Sansa the perseverance to endure whatever torments she'd faced and the Maiden for granting her the willingness to, at least, entertain the thought of him. He prayed to Them that their marriage would be one of love and trust and that, if she ever found herself willing, that Sansa bear only healthy children. To the Crone, he prayed for guidance in navigating their future together and thanked Her for giving him the insight to realize his chance. The Warrior he thanked for the courage to bare his truth to everyone so boldly as he had the previous night and sought the fortitude to continue protecting Sansa from the dangers King's Landing served her at the hands of his blood. From the Smith, he asked for aptitude in creating a foundation on which to build their life together. He thanked Him for the continued mending of their wounds, both physical and within. He prayed to the Stranger to stay far and away for as long as They could and thanked Them for whatever lie in store. As he watched the shadows grow longer and longer, waiting for sleep to take him, he hoped that, perhaps, things would get easier.
In the morning, Tyrion woke well before Sansa and slipped back out again, in the hopes that he could give her time to come to terms on her own. When she finally rose, finding herself alone still, or perhaps again, she readied for the day and made haste for the other side of the castle where she knew the offices of the small chamber sat. She found a spot in the garden outside and began working on her needlepoint again, enjoying the sunshine. It was interesting, she thought, how quickly she found herself less inhibited. Just before high noon, a group of men, whose faces she remembered from court, made their way out into the air. A few steps behind, Tyrion exited as well, head bowed low and focused on a seemingly troubling document. "My Lord!" she called, rising to meet him. He didn't lift his eyes. "Tyrion, wait," she said, a little louder, taking long strides to intercept him. He looked up with a start, searching for the voice, not used to anyone seeking him out. "I've been looking for you," she said with a smile.
Tyrion seemed confused by her visit, but very pleased to see her all the same. "Sansa? Is everything alright?"
"Yes. I just..." Sansa found herself lost for words again. She honestly hadn't expected to get this far. "I had wondered if, perhaps, we might take a walk around the grounds? I know we haven't much time before the wedding, but I'd hoped that, maybe, we might be able to acclimate to one another," she suggested, "at least a little, so that it's not a shock to us both." Tyrion surveyed her carefully as she spoke. "I know the Seven requires that we not see each other for twenty-four hours beforehand, so time is running perilously short."
"That's very wise," he agreed with a nod, tucking the ledger in his pocket. "I don't see why not. I have some time before I'm to return to the Small Counsel."
Sansa released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Good."
The new couple, if that was what they were, walked slowly through the gardens in comfortable silence, lost in independent thought. If she'd realized she would actually get this far, Sansa might have spent some time coming up with topics of conversation. Tyrion, however, was more than happy to just be in her presence unincumbered by his recent admission. He kept stealing glances at her, as though expecting the next time for her to not be there.
A sharp laugh from two passers-by jolted them both back to reality. Sansa's eyes widened in shock and she felt her confidence retreat into herself. Tyrion, on the other hand, gnashed his teeth a little, repeating their names to himself, low. "Ser Eldrick Sarsfield, Lord Desmond Crakehall. Ser Eldrick Sarsfield, Lord Desmond Crakehall..."
Not quite hearing his words clearly, Sansa turned to him curiously. "What's that?"
"Ah," Tyrion said, not realizing he'd actually been saying the words aloud. "Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and Lord Desmond Crakehall," he said, nodding in the direction the men walked.
Sansa gave a curt laugh. "Yes, and?"
"I have a list," he admitted, a little shyly.
The only time she had ever heard of such a thing was in sellswords and assassins and kings who were convinced the world was out to get them. The thought stiffened her. "Of people you mean to kill?" she asked quietly, stepping aside and gesturing for him to do the same.
He was taken aback by her insinuation. "No. Gods, no," he answered, bewildered that that would be her first instinct. "For laughing at me? Do I look like Joffrey to you?" She softened, shaking her head in the realization that, no, Tyrion was not that type of man. They resumed their walking. "Death is extreme for my taste. Fear of death, on the other hand," he half-joked.
"You should learn to ignore them," she suggested.
Tyrion laughed this time. "My dear Sansa, people have been laughing at me far longer than they've been laughing at you." Their eyes met and Sansa thought, just for a moment, that she saw the slightest hint of sadness beneath his jaded humor. "I am, after all, the Half-Man. The Demon Monkey. The Imp."
"And I am the disgraced, tarnished daughter of the traitor Lord Eddard Stark and sister of the Would-Be Usurper Robb Stark," she said, earning herself a genuine smile from her husband to be. "The Disgraced Daughter and the Demon Monkey," she mused, her fingers brushing gently past his sleeve as she lowered them to her sides. "I suppose we are perfect for each other."
Perfect for each other. Her words rang throughout his head. There was no sarcasm, no disappointment, just as though it was fact. Perfect for each other. "Lady Sansa-" Tyrion started, marveling at her ease in finding the humor in it all.
Seemingly, Sansa didn't notice his wonderment. "So, how do we punish them?" she asked, enjoying the playful moment.
"Who?" he asked, still caught up in her words.
"Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and Lord Desmond Crakehall," she reminded.
Tyrion nodded. "Ah, them. Well, I could speak to the Master of Whispers and learn their perversions," he turned to her and raised an eyebrow. "Anyone with a name like Desmond Crakehall must be a pervert."
Lacing her fingers in front of her, she turned her head to the side. "I hear you're a pervert."
"I am the imp," he admitted, staring at the ground. "I do have certain standards to uphold." Of course, she knew that. The pair lapsed into silence for a while before coming upon a small grove of pink and white flowering trees with white stone benches. Sansa stopped a moment, enjoying the view, and Tyrion gestured for her to enter and sit.
Choosing a bench in the far corner, they sat beside one another. A warm breeze off the water below rustled the blooms and caused them to fall. It was almost like King's Landing was offering her its version of snow. "We could sheep-shift their beds," she suggested.
"Sheep-shift?" he asked.
Sansa inched closer, pulling her knee onto the bench and resting her hand upon it. "You cut a hole in his mattress, fill the hole with sheep dung, sew it back up and remake the bed. The room will reek and he'll be none the wiser." She smiled mischievously.
Feigning revulsion and scandal, Tyrion clasped a hand over his heart. "Why, Lady Sansa!"
"My sister used to do that when she was angry with me. She was always angry with me," she looked down, mind suddenly hundreds of miles away.
"Why sheep-'shift'?" he asked.
Slightly embarrassed at ever being so green, she blushed. "That's what we used to think was the vulgar word for dung."
"Oh, My Lady," Tyrion looked down, realizing, not for the first time, how much had been stripped of this girl. She may not exactly be a child, but there was still so much youth in her. He felt himself falling for her even more. It didn't make sense. She was his soulmate, after all, and they were to be married. Still, he felt guilty.
Unaware of his struggle, Sansa gave a self-deprecating laugh. "You asked." She leaned in a little, even though they were alone, not wanting to risk anyone hearing her words and report them back to someone who might not appreciate them. "Tyrion, I just wanted to say, for the first time since being in King's Landing, I'm not particularly worried about what happens next."
"This doesn't scare you?" Tyrion asked, placing his hand perilously close to hers.
She let out a shaky breath. "A little, as I assume it scares everyone." Marriage, overall, was a big step for any two people, especially those who knew as little about their betrothed as they knew about each other. Still, given her choices, this seemed a much brighter option. "But I was brought here to be married, largely out of duty and never out of a particular fondness. I was told that I would grow to love the King as my husband and, the longer I knew him, the less it seemed likely." Her fingers lifted and lowered a few times as she stared at the space between them. "I don't know why you waited so long to tell the truth."
"I had accepted that you loved him. Whether or not that is the case here is not particularly relevant," he said, sensing her discomfort at the suggestion. "Sansa, I've lived with these words for seven years. For seven years, I've mulled over every intonation, every delivery every situation that could bring them about. In none of those situations did I ever, for a second, think that it would end well for me. I forced myself to swallow any feelings I could have because he was the boy who would be King and my nephew and, I don't know if you've noticed, Sansa, but I'm not exactly a desirable man." Her heart hammered in her chest as he said that, but she couldn't nail down why. "I don't expect you to ever reciprocate any feelings for me, especially not after all you've been through." Sansa closed her eyes, letting his words sink in. Not after all you've been through. He couldn't know all of it. "Besides which, you're still so far away from receiving your own mark."
"A little more than two years," she said, unsure if he was aware.
"In that time, who knows what could happen?"
Sansa was beginning to wonder if overthinking was something he did often. "Who indeed?"
The bells chimed, signaling the half hour, and Tyrion groaned. "And, I'm afraid I must away." He raised, offering his hand to her. She took it gladly, standing herself as well. "Thank you for seeking me out, Sansa. A much-needed break."
"It was my pleasure, Tyrion. Truly," she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. They lingered like that for a moment before Tyrion gave a nod, taking his leave. Sansa came to a striking realization. "Tyrion," she called out and he turned back, startled. "The next time we see each other will be our wedding day." Her stomach gave a flip that, if she didn't know better, she'd have called excitement. He smiled at her and placed his hand gently to his heart, as though stilling it, as he turned on his heel to go. Sansa stood by and watched him leave, ignoring the stares of the people who were shocked by the display. Apparently, news didn't travel quite as quickly in King's Landing as she thought.
"Lady Sansa?" a sweet voice came from behind Sansa, knocking her unceremoniously from her thoughts.
"Yes?" Sansa turned to find a woman, a bit older than herself, with red curls that hung down past her tanned shoulders, in a sleek gown of turquoise and gold.
The woman gave a polite curtsey. "Lady Sansa, I'm-"
With a smile and a similar motion, she interrupted the introduction. "Lady Margaery Tyrell. I've heard so much about you."
"And I you," Margaery admitted, relieved. "Do you mind if perhaps we took a stroll around the gardens?" Sansa shook her head, bidding the new insipient Queen Consort to lead the way. "Are you well?" she asked.
Sansa beamed, still reeling from the way her talk with her soon-to-be husband left her feeling. "I suppose. Still, adjusting, I think."
"From what I hear, you had quite the romantic declaration recently. I'm sad to have missed that." Margaery smiled knowingly, clearly having been brought up to speed.
The woman seemed genuine and it caught Sansa off-guard. "Indeed."
"You've not yet received your mark, have you?" she asked.
"No, My Lady," she answered. "I'm a few turns shy of nineteen. I've still got some time before then."
Margaery cooed, snaking her arm around Sansa's, "Oh, my dear, some time and no time at all. You'll see."
Taking a deep breath, Sansa directed them up a narrow walkway into a private garden with a rose-covered trellis over a small table and chairs "May I be entirely honest?" she asked.
"I would expect no less," Margaery answered, gesturing for them both to sit.
"Those two years may well be the death of me. Knowing now that there is someone who expects..." Sansa trailed off. She could only hazard weak guesses to what they could be, but she knew it wouldn't be long before they revealed themselves. Surely, Tyrion would be much more gentle than Joffrey could ever be, but he was, after all, a man and men of his position had certain demands of a wife. "Truthfully, I don't know what he expects. The only things Tyrion has asked of me is to try to grow to be his friend and to trust him. And, for whatever reason, I've never particularly mistrusted him."
She reached for her hand across the table. "So, how is that to be the death of you, dear girl?"
"I can certainly see myself growing to be his friend, but he... he seems so sure that he'll ask for no more. What if I come to a point where I know my own heart and he doesn't believe me?" She thought back to the way she seemed pulled to him, even before she knew how he felt and the way that every time she thought about being married to him felt like it did when she'd imagined marrying a knight on a white horse when she was a little girl. Only now, she knew what knights on white horses were like. Tyrion was not a knight. He was better.
"If he asks trust of you, would it be so hard for you to believe that he would trust you? Soulmates are a funny thing, Sansa. Have a little faith in him," she said, smiling warmly.
The concern she'd been struggling to name finally gave way to words. "What if at the end of all that time, he's not mine?"
"Then we'd both be in the same boat, wouldn't we?"
Sansa gave a shaky breath. No, not the same boat at all. Still, she understood the girl's position. "Is King Joffrey not-"
"No, sweetling. That was actually why I called upon you." Seeing that Sansa was still curious about her situation, she decided to give her some more information. "My soulmate is dead. I was married to mine. My Renly. He was a good man."
"Oh."
Margaery teased, "Yes, oh. I was not his soulmate," she gave an affected sigh and leaned back in her chair. "In fact, that was my brother, but that is indeed a story for another day. With Renly gone and news of the King's recent singularity, my grandmother accepted the match straight away that, with the recent victory at the Blackwater, the Lord Hand was only too quick to make on his grandson's behalf." Her light tone fell into a more serious one. "I'd heard a rumor that I wanted to..." she trailed off, trying to handle the situation delicately.
Uncomfortably, Sansa shifted, staring at the table and withdrawing her hand to her lap. "Lady Margaery...
That was certainly telling. "Oh. Well, then," she said shakily. "That doesn't bode well for me, does it? Please, just tell me." The older girl's confidence faltered as she tried to urge Sansa on.
"He has received no marking," Sansa started, trying to avoid the topic of her own troubles with the King, as she knew that they could be seen as treason and put her newly found safety at risk. "You know, probably better than I do, what that entails for a soul. If the Seven don't deem a soul worthy of that, I'm sure you can assume..." her ribs still hadn't stopped aching and she'd never been more grateful that all of her gowns had sleeves after how roughly she'd been thrown around at dinner. "I'm sorry," she said, tugging at the hem near her left wrist.
Margaery nodded, understanding. "That wasn't the rumor to which I spoke, but I suppose that does confirm what I was trying to ask." She looked at the girl's fidgeting. "I presume these bruises you're trying so hard to cover are not from your own lack of grace or from Lord Tyrion."
Sansa's eyes widened and she shook her head. "No, Tyrion would never."
With a solemn nod, the woman simply whispered, "Alright, then."
"I'm sorry," she repeated, not knowing what else to say.
Tears stuck in her eyes, Margaery shook her head. "Don't be. I'll figure that all out," she assured, reaching her hand across for the girl again, which she readily took. "But, Sansa, I would very much like us to be friends. Family, even." A playful grin played at one corner of her mouth, suggestively. "I suppose you'll be my aunt soon enough."
Both of the women laughed, realizing just how silly it all sounded. "I'd like that very much," Sansa said, breathing lighter.
The ladies spent the bulk of the afternoon discussing wedding plans and childhood stories and enjoying each other's company. By the time Sansa retired to their chambers, she could easily say that that afternoon had been her best in King's Landing.
Yet.