Chapter 4
Through a meal shared at the table and a long conversation about what happened in King's Landing with the rise of the Faith, the explosion of the Sept and everything in between, Margaery admits she doesn't want to be queen anymore. Not when the Targaryen rightfull heir arrives with a large army and three dragons at her back. She only wants to exterminate the Lannisters. They all can agree on that part.
They all take their leave to go rest. They are to depart at first light. Margaery's bath was quick and warm in front of the fire in her room. No luxury, not in here. This odd way of life feels wild and rough, so unlike her own life in Highgarden that she should be revulsed by its almost abrasive quality. But she isn't. Looking out into the dark night, seeing the thickness of snow on the windowsill, earing the wind bounsing against the hard stones of the chimney, this place gives her better understanding of its habitants. Of Sansa. She remembers the young girl, barely a woman then, so long ago, walking the capital with such naivety and kindness, oblivious of the nest of liars, betrayers, thiefs and murdurers all walking around her wearing parfum and pretty nice clothing. She was so clueless of it all. She didn't belong in King's Landing, she was nothing like anyone Margaery had ever met, and she had wondered how this young Lady Sansa came to be, to even exist. For a first daughter, a second borned to a Noble House, to be this candid had been baffling. Now, meeting the North and Winterfell for the first time, Margaery begins to understand the gap between them. Their worlds are so different. Seeing the reality of their life here, it is a miracle Sansa Stark managed to survive so many years in the capital. No wonder she looked so dull and sick under the South's sun and bright colors. She belonged to the wild white cold of the North.
Margaery is muzing her new sight of the Stark girl that once could have been her friend and sister when a soft nock comes at the door. She looks at the only candle still lighted on the table between the bed and the door in the small room. She has been standing there for half a candle mark, in her nightgown, traveling boots, coat and furs borrowed from the bed. Her body feels heavy, both from the harsh pace traveling north and from the cold of her room. She realises that she is tired, her body sudenly hurts from standing so long. She needs to lie down, soon.
« Come in » She says loud enough to be heard from her post. When the door opens it takes an effort to torn her eyes from the frost eating at the glass of the window. Even with the massive shutters drawn, the cold passes through. She is so hypnotised by the shapes drawing patterns on the glass that she realises a little late that the door has closed behind her visitor some time ago but no sound were made since. The silence is all there is in this castle it seems. Those of the ghosts ruling the stones. This House is in mourning, at last. After years of war and battles, fighting for survival, they didn't have time to cry, to grieve. To say good by and fair well. Maybe now they can start healing. Maybe not yet.
There are steps behind her and the sound of fabric.
« I brought you a winter cloak and some other clothing that will suit you better in the cold »
For a moment Margaery closes her eyes and smiles. This voice, after so long, it is like velvet on her once smooth skin. A voice of the past she can hear if she searches enough, under the sharp edge of Sansa's tone there is the softness hidden, not quite squashed, just dorment. Waiting to be safe enough to dare exist again.
« Thank you » Margaery whispers lowly in the room, compelled since coming here to speak more simply, to make every word count and mean something. It seems to be the North's way.
« You didn't speak much at diner earlier »
She is staying. Margaery sighs slowly and finaly moves, walking to her bed. She needs to sit.
« There was nothing to say. »
« Nothing to say... »
She can hears the anger threatening to rise. There can be no misunderstanding, not after all the waste they already lived. Not now. Sitted on the side of the large bed, Margaery bends, elbows on her knees she brushes her face with her hands. A far cry from the posture of a lady. The hotness of her scars appreciat the cold of her hands.
« I didn't mean... » She sighs, looking at the ground. « There was nothing to say at that table, with everyone on it. Your brothers asked questions, both Loras and i answered truthfully about everything. We told you all of what happened in King's Landing that we know of, that i know of. I even told you about the Targaryen queen sailing to Westeros to take back her throne. » She stretches her tired muscles and finaly lifts her head to find her visitor's blue eyes. « I was an open book about all the politics and wars, economic and military facts and decisions made, more than my brother would be confortable with. I gave the information i have about Westeros, nobility and leadership, Sansa. At that table, it was all i could say, but none of it was what i personaly came here to say to you. At that table it was House Tyrell making contact and possible alliance with House Stark of Winterfell, not Margaery visiting her long past friend Sansa. For Margaery, on that table, there was nothing to say. »
She grunts and wills her bones to support her once more. She stands up.
« Now that we are alone and that you are looking at me, i have something to say. » She takes a step toward her host. Sansa Stark is standing in her regal dark blue dress, red hair braided on her back over a thin coat brodden with wolves's figures facing each other, one on each side of the cloth. She stands tall, ungloved hands clapsed at her front, white skin, red lips, iced eyes staring at her. She bares the same face that she presented since they set foot in this place. A blank face. But her eyes, most of all, her eyes are almost cold, yet a flame of her young self still burns underneath, waiting to be called free.
Sansa is standing here, after all. She could have stayed in her room, sending a servant to bring the cloth. She could have not come, yet she is here.
« We were friends, once. » Margaery can't help the sadness that cracks her voice. She swallows and shifts her weight on her feet. « In all the months we spend together there, i never could speak a word without being overheard, you know that. You were a young girl, frightened, and rightfully so. I was older than you and raised in Highgarden, i knew the game of court better. I tried to help you the best i could, i hope you know that. » For a moment, she looks down at the stoned floor. She feels emotional, exposed, and a large part of her wants to retreat behind her masks, but she doesn't let herself. She swallows in the silence where Sansa Stark doesn't move and doesn't respond, and meet her unyielding gaze once again. « For all the lies and betrayals there was in this place, Sansa, i did my best to be true to you. You were all alone and i wanted to be with you, to be your friend, to help you, to guide you, for you to learn... but i couldn't. »
She sighs and steps forwards. They are three stances appart. Sansa still doesn't move, only stares. Margaery takes the silence as a probing for her to say more. She is too far gone to stop now.
« I couldn't guide you for two main reasons. » She smiles gently at the memory and the Sansa she knew then. « Even with your guards always trailing you i could have find ways to train you, to teach you the court and all the schemes that lay within. I could have teach you to better lie, to better watch, to understand the politics at play, the benefits of smiling to better hurt your opponent, to think like your enemy and plan every move, to make alliance, to discern those who will turn on you at first opportunity. I could have teach you all of this while pretending to be chatting about flowers along our walks. I was good at it. I was born for it. » Her grin is a grimace of refrained self-loathing. So much has changed since that time. « But your innocence puzzled me and amazed me all the same. You were kind, truely, really kind. It was this kindness most of all that made any guidance i could have tried unadequate for you. You weren't ready to see the world ugly and i didn't want to be the one staining you. » She closes her eyes and whispers to herself. « I was so glad you escaped this place, Sansa. »
Margaery shakes her head and looks to the side, to the frost on the window. « Now we are here »
For a moment, there is silence and the sounds of the crackling wood in the fire. The glow of the candle gives the room a quiet atmosphere. Sometimes the wind screams and the flames dance in the hearth.
« What of the second one ? »
The quiet question is a murmure that rouses Margaery from her contemplation. She comes to face her visitor once more, tilts her head to the side. « The second ? »
There is a flicker of amusement in the blue eyes looking at her. She sees it an instant before it vanishes under the cold.
« The second reason why you couldn't teach me. » Sansa's voice is void now, uninterested. Yet she is asking.
« Well... » Margaery lets her eyes travel to the table. The candle enlightens Sansa from behind, giving the Stark woman a halo in the dark room. Her gaze finds the stone wall beyond her host's shoulder. « I had my own battles to fight »
She remembers all too well how deep she had to go to associate herself to the mad, sadistic boy king, Joffrey Baratheon, how far she went to make him see her as an equal, a partner. She remembers asking one of her ladies-in-waiting to share her bed some nights when she couldn't bare what she'd have to become to keep Joffrey intrigued by her charmes. She wanted the company of a young giggling girl, to be around a genuine girly laugh and easy banter to remember who she really was. To remember to retrieve the mask she was forced to bear in his presence, more and more.
« You were the only reason i thought about staying. » Margaery shudders out of her memory. Her eyes find Sansa's. The blue eyes are almost soft now, understanding where Margaery's mind have just been seconds ago. Sansa knows she is interrupting her dark memories. The moment Margaery looks at her and exit her souvenir, the some of the coldness comes back in the Stark's gaze. Some, but not all. The gentle young Sansa remains pointing her head underneath.
« When the time came for me to run, to flee the city, i looked at you for a moment. With Joffrey dying on the ground, you were surrounded by Lannisters and i was afraid for you. You were my friend. My only friend. Even when we didn't spend much time together after i was married to Tyrion, even when i understood you mostly wanted to marry me to your House not because of friendship but to secure the North for yourself, i still hoped your interest was genuine, that some part of you cared for me. That you were my friend. »
Sansa's voice is sharp. She doesn't stutters, doesn't hesitate, doesn't look away. She is strong now, too much strong maybe. She seems on the verge of the wrong kind of strenght, the fierceness ready to become rigid and cold. The flame of passion is almost out.
« When i was sailing with Lord Baelish who pretended to be my friend, i started to trust him. An other mistake. I made plenty of those over the years, until i finaly learned my lesson. I am the only one i can trust, that is the lesson i learned. The rest, i cannot trust fully, never. »
« I... » Margaery drops her shoulders and trails back to the bed. She slumps herself on the heavy blankets and furs. « I am sorry you learned it, at the end » She swallows. « I am sorry for what caused you to learn that harsh lesson. »
She had heard, of course, of Lady Sansa's marriage with the Bolton's bastard. She managed to glimps pieces of information about this family, only learning of the horrors this house was capable of on a daily basis. She wept for the trials her young friend was to face. In her mind, the day Sansa Stark left King's Landing, she knew the woman was as good as dead. There were no Stark no return to, no protection to seek, no rock to hide under in safety. Her heart could pretend Sansa was going home, but her mind knew there was no home left for her to find. As the months and years passed, she only waited for the news of Sansa's death to come. Once or twice the Small Council told of her death, but then she appeared again, somewhere else. Each time, instead of feeling joy and relieved to hear such good news, Margaery feared for her friend, feared for the next torment she'll have to face, alone.
It is no surprise to see her still standing, alone in the dark room, hardened by the years and the survival.
« I will not ask for your trust, Sansa » she murmurs in the silence between them. She shifts on the furs and lies down on them, her head on the pillow looking at the celling she can barely see without light. « Only peace, long, last peace can bring trust back into this land. Maybe. » She laughs at her own words then, bitter. « Maybe real trust will be for our children, one day. » She corrects herself. Can a broken heart ever beat as strongly as before ? There is no looking back. At least, she musses, she herself still fully trusts Olenna. She cannot say the same for Loras, her dear brother however. She remembers his weakness at the Sept, how he renounced his lordship and his name, joining the madness of the Faith. Denying his family. Denying her. The sting of betrayal is still there, among the burned scars. She doesn't forget.
She heard the unsaid words earlier. Sansa doesn't trust anyone but herself. She doesn't even trust her own family. Still, she is at Winterfell for now. Even without trust the Stark remainings of sibblings is be better than nothing to assist a woman in this world.
They stay quiet a long time, Margaery lying on the bed, Sansa subtly supporting herself against the chair at the table. She tries to hide her weak body, but Margaery's watchful eye is used to the court, looking for small gestures of plots, infidelity and treachery. Maybe the Lady of the castle has been hurt while taking back her home ? The battle was only weeks ago, after all, almost at the same time the Sept exploded in the capital. Maybe there is more to it. She sees the way Sansa lines with the casual habit of old badly healed injuries. She saw knights and old lords at tournaments in King's Landing showing the same gait.
She is confortable, in the silence, with only wind and fire chanting into the night. It slowly lulls her aching body to sleep. She vaguely hears steps and the handle of the door. She realises her eyes are closed and she tries to blink and turns to her side toward the entrance. She looks into the dark and faintly smell the candle have been blown out. A glowing torch shines far in the corridor, just enough light to see the silhouette of her old friend when the door closes shut, leaving her in the dark.