Archive of Our Own ^beta

Family, duty, honour. Tully words. Her mother's words. Sansa had been dutiful; a dutiful daughter, a dutiful wife, and daughter again. She had been honourable, too, until “honour” meant the same as “traitor”, until her tongue was thick with so many lies she could hardly keep them straight. Honour had gotten her father's head on a spike, and her brother a wolf's in place of his, if the stories she had heard were true. She had had a family once, too, until the Lannisters murdered them all. Dutiful Sansa. Honourable Sansa. A wolf with no teeth or claws, and no pack either. Sansa had no room for family, or duty, or honour, not any more.

It felt like a lifetime ago, though it had only been a handful of years. Queen in the North, they called her now, ruler of a castle still half in ruins, with ice in her veins instead of blood, and her teeth and claws grown as long and sharp as any lion.

Jon visited on occasion. They were almost strangers, so long it had been since they were children, playing together behind Winterfell's tall, strong walls. She gave him and his men beds and food and ale, and scratched quiet Ghost's ears with a smile as pale as the direwolf's fur. If Jon needed men, Sansa did her best to provide, and made sure to ask Jon about the state of the wall on each trip. “It holds,” he would say, and smile at her, but it did not warm her heart. He looked older with his beard grown and his hair cropped, the scars on his face faded to white lines on his white skin. But then he would go, and take his brothers with him, and leave Sansa presiding over a court of ghosts once again.

There were other visitors as well. Her father's bannermen, hers now, came one by one to pledge their fealty. Sometimes she gave travellers shelter in her hall. Most times the castle was silent and still, save for the echoes of reconstruction. Sansa watched from her tower as the workers raised and placed the old stones, and cut and placed new ones when they must, and slowly, Winterfell started to look as it should, instead of the haunted shadow of what once was. When the raven came, it was nearly there, and by the time the small convoy came trotting up the kingsroad, only the varied colour of the stone gave away that there had been any repairs at all.

There were no trumpets to announce them, no banners held high, snapping in the cold wind. There was no carriage, only horses, and carts for supplies. They dressed plainly, but beneath rough cloaks, Sansa saws the weak sunlight glint off plate and mail and hilts of swords. Sansa waited for them in the courtyard, bundled in her furs, her hair tossing lightly around her face. The horses kicked up mud and dirt, and the noise startled the birds from their perches along the top of the walls.

The first rider swung from his horse, and for a moment, all was still, until he pushed back his hood and smiled gently. There was a patch where his left eye had once been, and scars down his jaw and the side of his neck, but he was still as handsome as Sansa remembered.

“Your Grace,” Ser Loras said, bowing to kiss the hand she offered him. “I almost mistook you for your lady mother.”

“I am pleased to see you well, ser,” Sansa replied, and slowly withdrew her hand. Loras straightened. “Be welcome in my home. There is food and drink waiting, and fires to warm you.” Loras sketched a bow, and turned on his heel. The chatter started then, as the riders dismounted and Sansa's servants, as few as they were, moved to help with the horses and unloaded the supplies to be eaten or stored for the return journey. Sansa's eyes remained on one figure, a few horses away from Loras, who remained mounted until most of the others had handed their mounts off and sauntered into the hall. Even without fine silks and lace, with a dagger on their belt and a hood hiding their face, Sansa knew who they were. They swung off their horse as smoothly as Loras had, and pushed back their hood. Sansa fought to remember her manners, and not pull the woman into her arms.

“My lady,” Margaery Tyrell said, her voice soft and sweeter than music in Sansa's ears. She kissed Sansa's hand as well, but this time Sansa didn't pull it away so quickly. Margaery's fingertips squeezed her palm gently.

“Be welcome at my hearth and my home, Lady Margaery,” Sansa replied. Margaery laughed lightly, and finally pulled her hand away.

“Margaery, if it please Your Grace,” she said. “We were friends once.” Sansa smiled weakly. Margaery returned it, and passed her, following her brother and their men into the hall. Sansa closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply, but there was no perfume, only the scent of mud and horses and the icy chill of winter.

Sansa had no family to sup with, so the Tyrells shared her table, with Margaery at her right, and Loras at her left, and their men scattered about the tables below. For once, the walls rang with laughter and jests instead of the wind and ghostly cries. Someone started a song, and it wasn't long before everyone had joined, Loras and Margaery among them. Margaery had changed from her plain riding clothes into the silks Sansa remembered so fondly, although far less revealing than her usual southron garb. It was too cold for such things in the North. Still, her greens and golds brought much needed colour to dreary Winterfell's tired hall.

It wasn't until half the men were passed out from drink, and the other half too drunk to care, with Loras half asleep next to her, that Sansa dared slide her hand into Margaery's lap. The older girl sipped her spiced wine, and a heartbeat later covered Sansa's fingers with her own.

They slipped away much later, when snores had replaced the sound of music, and crept to Sansa's tower as quiet as mice. It had been her parents, hers now, by right, and although the bed was different, and their old furs long gone, when the fire was burning tall in the hearth, Sansa could feel their love as warmly as she could the flames.

Margaery's hands were cool when she slid them across Sansa's waist, but her body was warm, pressing into Sansa's back. Sansa relaxed into her touch, closing her eyes, and letting Margaery hold her weight until the older girl started to lay kisses along the back of her shoulder, and the desire that had been burning low in Sansa's stomach ever since she'd received Margaery's letter flared. She spun, and bent her head to kiss her companion. They both sighed, and with a rustle of skirts and smallclothes, tumbled into bed. Twice wedded, thrice now, never bedded, they said about the Tyrell girl. Sansa couldn't dispute the first, but she highly doubted the second, at least in the traditional way. Margaery had always had too much skill with her fingers and tongue to be a true maid.

Sansa's hair fell across Margaery's breast like spilled red wine on a white linen, or blood on snow. Margaery had stroked a curl behind her ear, but her hand stayed, tracing from the front of Sansa's ear around the shell, then lifting and repeating. It was quickly sending Sansa to sleep. There was no need for formalities between them now, not when they lay naked beneath a pile of furs, with the air drying the sweat that had gathered on their skin. Margaery was humming softly, a lullaby that she had sung to Sansa long ago, and one that her mother had sung to her, and her brothers.

“Would that I could stay forever,” Margaery said when the song had ended, and nothing but the crackling of the fire had filled the space between them for long moments. “You could steal me away and hide me here in your tower, and ravish me every night.” Sansa laughed.

“You would be my captive?” she asked.

“No,” Margaery replied. “Not your captive. Not truly.”

“Would the South think that the case? Your father? I've had enough of war and death for a hundred lifetimes, let alone one.” Margaery twined her fingers around Sansa's curls.

“I could be your queen,” she whispered, and kissed the top of Sansa's head. Sansa laughed again. “What?” Margaery sounded mildly offended. “Why not? We could say our vows, and I could stay here with you, and rule by your side. We would be great queens, you and I.”

“We can't be married,” Sansa argued. It was all jest. Margaery and her brother and their men would leave after a month, and it could be years before Sansa saw her lover again, but the southron girl's place was back in Highgarden, awaiting a new marriage after the deposition of the remaining Lannister brood from King's Landing.

“Why can't we? You've a sept, and a septon, yes?” Margaery wriggled out from under her, and propped herself up on one elbow. Sansa rolled away, and met her eyes. They glinted wickedly.

“It's the middle of the night,” Sansa said, “and I keep the Old Gods, like my father and my brothers. The sept is only a courtesy now. A memory. For my mother.” Margaery's hand slid over her stomach and rubbed against her ribs. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, dark against her pale skin. Her hands were warm now, fingers lightly sticky from their lovemaking.

“And what of your Old Gods, then?” Margaery asked. “How do you marry with no septon?” Sansa reached down to grab Margaery's fingers before they wandered too far, and slid her own between them.

“We say our vows in the godswood, before the heart tree. It's impossible to lie in front of it, so they say.” Margaery's smile turned mischievous. Sansa frowned at her, and reached when she pulled away. The older girl shuddered, separated from the warmth of the bed, and drew one of Sansa's thick clothes around her from where it hung by the fire. “Where are you going?”

“To your godswood,” Margaery replied, tugging her hair free. “To stand in front of your heart tree, and say my vows.” She extended her hand, and raised a brow, almost challenging. Sansa stared at it. Margaery wiggled her fingers. “It doesn't work very well on my own.” A smile spread across Sansa's face, lazy and warm. She accepted Margaery's hand, and let her lady pull her from her bed and bundle her in furs to combat the cold.

Sansa knew the grounds well enough, but for Margaery's sake she took a lantern. Around them the shadows flickered, and the wind nipped at her skin when it slipped between the layers of her cloak. The wind rustled the leaves, and howled softly through the branches. In the stables the horses whickered softly, or pawed the ground with their feet. Somewhere nearby a dog sneezed. If any of the guards saw their queen leading her lover across the grounds to the ancient weirwood trees, they didn't say a word. Once, the strange trees with their old faces had frightened her, but now she knew better than to be afraid. Her and the trees were both of the North, and had Sansa pressed her hand against the pale bark, she would have hardly known where the tree ended and she began.

“Here,” Sansa whispered, though there was no reason to be quiet, and helped Margaery over a root. “Watch the pool. My father used to sit here, and sharpen Ice, and pray to the gods.”

“It's beautiful,” Margaery said, her voice just as soft, almost in awe. Sansa allowed a small smile, and guided Margaery to her side. In the face of the heart tree, she thought for a second she could see her father smiling at her. “Do you remember how to say your wedding vows, Sansa?”

“Yes.” She remembered the wedding as well, and the Imp's grotesque little face, but he had been the kindest lion of all in the end. She set the lantern down by their feet, nestled against the trunk of the tree. Dead leaves scattered over her feet as the wind blew again. Sansa shuddered, and stepped closer to her lover. Margaery was gazing a the heart tree, a queer expression on her face.

“It is different from the one in King's Landing,” she said, and raised a hand as if to touch the carved face.

“That one is oak. This is a weirwood. They made an effort, but it will never be the same.”

“No,” Margaery said. Her fingers fell, and found Sansa's again. “I suppose not.” She turned then, and smiled sweetly at Sansa. “This is queer without a septon to start. Are you sure we can't wake him?”

“Yes,” Sansa giggled.

“Shall you start then, or shall I?” Margaery asked. Sansa thought she was blushing, or maybe that was just the cold biting her cheeks, or the lantern's light bathing her skin.

“I will. I am queen, after all.” She cleared her throat, took Margaery's hands in her own, and stood a bit straighter. “In the sight of the old gods and the new, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.” It wasn't exactly right, Sansa knew, but she thought the gods wouldn't mind.

“Father,” they said together. “Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am hers, and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days.” Margaery leaned up on her toes and kissed her so softly that Sansa's heart melted for her all over again.

“I would give you my cloak,” the older girl said, “but I fear I would freeze without it. Is it just me, or is it colder beneath these trees?”

“It's colder,” Sansa told her. “It always has been.” She stole another kiss, and lingered until a breeze made them both shiver. She would have had Margaery there, had it been summer, and the canopy could protect them from the wind. “Come, my lady. It's time you were properly bedded.” The woods filled with Margaery's amused laughter as Sansa released one of her hands to retrieve the lantern.

“Just don't fall and break your neck,” she said, and clutched her cloak closed. “I don't fancy being windowed on my wedding day again.”

Giggling like children they shed their cloaks by the fire and made a rug out of them, letting the flames banish the chill from their bones. Margaery whispered her name against her skin. “My wolf,” she called her. “My wolf. My darling queen. Oh, Sansa.”

Margaery sprawled across her, panting against her breast as Sansa pulled her fingers free. She twined them through Margaery's silken curls. Peace settled on them as Margaery did, relaxing into Sansa's body with a content sigh. Margaery was tracing shapes on her ribs again, and down her side across her hips, teasing towards her sex. Sansa laughed softly and turned her hips away, reaching down to take Margaery's hand in her own. The older girl nipped playfully at the swell of her breast.

“I will miss this, when you go,” Sansa sighed. She rubbed her nails against the back of her lover's skull. Margaery tsked.

“You shouldn't think that way,” she said, tilting her head back to look at Sansa's face. She laid their joined hands on Sansa's sternum. “We have so long together, my queen.” Sansa hummed.

“Should I be worried about your father trying to marry you to the king again?” Margaery barked out an amused laugh, and rolled onto her side.

“I think my father has had enough of trying to marry me to kings. Gendry will have to find some other southron lady to be his bride.”

Sansa wished she could stay. She had always thought Margaery would make a wonderful queen. She was kind, and beautiful, and the smallfolk in King's Landing had loved her. Sansa was hard pressed to think of anyone who didn't, besides Cersei, and perhaps Joffrey as well. Tommen had certainly adored her, though he'd been to young to really understand. None of them mattered any more, though. Margaery was hers.

“What if I tell Father?” Margaery asked softly. Sansa's hands stilled in her hair. “Not about us, but that I wish to remain. Loras will argue for me, and he has Willas, and Garlan besides. He won't miss one daughter, not when Highgarden is soon to be brimming with grandchildren.”

“Do you truly think he'll allow you to stay?” She let hope fill her chest, for the first time in many, many years. Margaery pulled her fingers from Sansa's, and ran her hand down her stomach. Her lips curled into a smirk.

“I do,” she said, and her touch made Sansa forget any worry she had for the night.

In the morning, Margaery sent a raven, written in her own hand, with Loras at her shoulder offering his help. He gave Sansa knowing looks, but kept silent, a smile almost exactly like his sister's gracing his lips. Margaery sealed it with grey wax and Sansa's direwolf, and the maester let the raven loose. Sansa dismissed him with a gentle word, and Loras bowed before joining him at a nod from his sister. Sansa drew her lover close, and together they watched out the window as the bird swiftly faded from view.

“I think I shall stay regardless of what Father says,” Margaery said a few moments later, resting her head against Sansa's shoulder. “I'm a woman grown, flowered, wedded,” she paused, and smirked up at Sansa, “bedded. Besides, if Grandmother says it's all right, he'll hardly argue.”

“Perhaps you should have written her instead,” Sansa joked.

“Oh, please,” Margarey said with a laugh. “She'll have read the letter a hundred times over before he even knows it arrived.”

“And if she disapproves?” Sansa remembered the Queen of Thorns quite vividly. She'd been kind enough to Sansa, but many things had changed over the years, and Lady Olenna was ever so protective of her only granddaughter.

“I think I shall stay anyway,” Margaery whispered in a conspiratorial tone.

“You are terribly wicked,” Sansa replied. Margaery laughed at that, and tilted her head back to steal a warm kiss.

“You love me for it,” she muttered against Sansa's lips. Yes, Sansa thought, as she pulled her giggling lover through the corridors and back to their chambers. Yes, I do.

She was a fair queen, if not dutiful, honest, though not particularly honourable, but she had a companion to warm her bed at night, to keep her teeth and claws long and sharp, and surround her with thorns of steel.