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The morning of Joffrey’s wedding to Lady Margaery, Sansa is awoken by a knock on her door.
“Lady Sansa?” calls Lord Tyrion – she refuses to think of him as her husband. He has been kind, in his way; she is allowed her own room, and is only forced to bear his company in public. Still. Sansa’s thoughts are the only part of her still free. She will think what she wishes, and no one can punish her for it.
He knocks again. “Are you awake, Lady Sansa?”
She drags herself from her bed. Her new maid had crept in earlier to open her window’s curtains, and the stones beneath her feet are sun-warm. It’s almost enough to make Sansa smile. The reminder of Shae’s mysterious absence steals away even that little joy, however, as do the rest of the miseries of Sansa’s life.
Tugging a robe on over her chemise, Sansa opens the door. “My lord?”
Lord Tyrion grimaces apologetically. “I’m sorry to have woken you, my lady, but you’ve been requested.”
His words drip like ice down her spine, and Sansa’s breath catches in her throat before she remembers her courtesies. “Your apologies are unnecessary, my lord. I was awake already.”
“Yes. Well.” Lord Tyrion shrugs awkwardly. “As I said, your presence has been requested. In the Sept of Baelor.”
Sansa’s fingers tighten in the folds of her robe. “By whom, my lord?”
“The guard didn’t say,” says Lord Tyrion, but the expression on his face indicates he fears the worst – he glances away to avoid her gaze, and the set of his shoulders is tight and angry.
Is he angry on her behalf, afraid that Joffrey means to harm her, or rather on his own behalf, afraid that Joffrey means to harm his possession? Sansa wonders cynically. She doesn’t ask, of course. Instead, she musters up a polite smile. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll go at once.”
“I’ll send a guard with you,” Lord Tyrion says, then he turns and leaves quickly, as though he can’t bear to look at her for even a second longer.
Sansa closes the door with hands that shake. What new torture has Joffrey devised for her? Margaery had promised her that he would not make good on his threat to -- to take Sansa after their wedding; she had knelt at Sansa’s feet, held her hands so tightly that her nails bit into Sansa’s palms, and sworn it. But Margaery doesn’t know Joffrey like Sansa does, Margaery is a Tyrell and protected and beloved. Sansa is nothing but a traitor’s daughter.
She realizes abruptly that she’s not breathing, and forces herself to inhale shakily.
Pretend like it’s any other morning, she tells herself, wiping at the tears that linger at the corners of her eyes. She straightens her spine.
She can be strong.
It’s still early enough that the road to the Great Sept is mostly empty. Sansa has mixed feelings of gratitude and dread as a result. She’s wearing the dress she’d had made for the wedding, and it is finer than what the Lannisters’ generosity had afforded her prior to her marriage to Lord Tyrion; if the streets were crowded, it would surely have been ruined. Originally, she and Lord Tyrion were to travel together to the wedding on horseback, which would have saved her gown from wear and tear. A part of Sansa wonders if perhaps Joffrey was hoping to humiliate her by forcing her to walk. It’s not like he would bother to know when his people rise for the day, after all.
The downside of the solitude is that, without busy cityfolk obstructing her way, the walk to the Sept takes far less time than it would have otherwise. All too soon, Sansa is standing in front of the great doors, her heart hammering in her chest.
She’s not sure how long she stands there, frozen, unable to move even if she wanted to. A cool droplet of sweat trickles down her back, and she bites the inside of her cheek, trying to muster up the nerve, but all of her courage and all of her strength seems to have fled her. Surely Joffrey wouldn’t – not in the Sept –
At last, the guard beside her clears his throat and steps forward to push the doors open.
“Sansa! Thank goodness you’re here!”
It’s not Joffrey, it’s not Joffrey, it’s Margaery, and Sansa’s knees almost buckle as Margaery takes her by the hands and drags her in.
The Sept is silent. It is lavishly decorated with flowers and silks and banners, the result of weeks of planning. It must have taken days to set up, yet no one but Margaery is present now.
“Where is everyone?”
Margaery laughs. “I told them it was customary in Highgarden that the wife-to-be hold a night-long vigil alone in the Sept, before her wedding. I couldn’t stand another moment with all those people rushing around worrying, not when the real work was already done. Doesn’t it look beautiful, Sansa? Just look at those roses!”
Roses do seem to dominate the room. Bunches of them line the pathway from the doors to the floor of the Sept, and still more decorate the lavish altar in the center, where the High Septon will wed Joffrey and Margaery in just a few hours. And, of course, Margaery herself is adorned in roses; from the tiny roses wound into elegant knot of her hair to the subtle, gorgeous embroideries of her gown, she is bedecked in them.
Sansa can’t help but smile at her friend, giddy with relief and somewhat dazzled by Margaery’s splendour. “You look beautiful,” she says, and Margaery smiles.
“And so do you. Your hairpiece is exquisite. Are those amethysts?” says Margaery.
“It was a gift.”
“It compliments you beautifully,” says Margaery, and Sansa ducks her head to cover the blush she feels flaming in her cheeks. Margaery winds an arm around Sansa’s waist and leads her down further into the Sept. “You may leave us,” she calls over her shoulder to the guard, who bows and departs, closing the door behind him. At last, they’re truly alone.
Sansa stops at the foot of the stair and turns to stare at Margaery. Margaery stares back.
“Are you nervous?” Sansa says.
“Me? What about you?” Margaery says, curling a warm hand around Sansa’s upper arm. “My dear Sansa, you looked like you were going to faint when I first saw you. Has something happened?”
Sansa appreciates how Margaery asks has something happened rather than are you alright, since Sansa is obviously not alright and hasn’t been for a very long time. Margaery is so clever and bright, and she always knows what to say.
Sansa leans slightly into Margaery’s warm hand, and says, “I didn’t know it was you. Calling for me, I mean.” Margaery frowns, and Sansa says, stumbling slightly over the words, “I – I thought –“
“You thought it was Joffrey,” Margaery says.
Sansa nods, and bites the inside of her cheek to stop her lower lip from trembling.
Margaery’s face hardens suddenly, and Sansa almost steps back in confusion and fear, but then Margaery is stepping in close and wrapping her arms around Sansa. She hugs Sansa tightly; her hold is so strong Sansa fears their dresses will be wrinkled, but she can’t even bring herself to care. Margaery is warm, and soft, and she runs her hands down Sansa’s spine comfortingly.
“My sweet girl,” Margaery says. “My dear sweet girl. I am so sorry.”
Sansa bites the inside of her cheek again, and tilts her face carefully into Margaery’s neck to breathe in the light, airy perfume that she wears. Margaery continues to whisper soothing nonsense into her hair until Sansa has stopped shaking.
“I’m alright,” Sansa says, quietly, with her eyes still shut and her cheek pressed to Margaery’s skin. “I’m alright.”
“That’s good,” Margaery says. “I’m glad.”
Sansa pulls away slowly and offers Margaery a hesitant smile, which Margaery returns. At that moment, though, the bells start to ring, loud and joyous in the air above them, announcing the morning of the royal wedding. As Sansa watches, Margaery’s face slowly gains a new pallor she hasn’t seen before, although her expression doesn’t shift at all.
She’s afraid, Sansa realizes. After all this time she really is afraid. Who wouldn’t be, wedding a monster like Joffrey? And she’s been so brave, and Sansa stares at her and feels like her heart might burst with fear and adoration.
Sansa reaches out and takes Margaery’s hands in her own, clutches them, wills what little strength she has to offer to pass on to Margaery. “Everything is going to be fine,” she says, and tries to believe it. Margaery is completely unlike the girls from her stories, beautiful and fiery and brimming with cleverness, fully capable of taking care of herself. Sansa has to believe Margaery will be alright; the alternative is too awful to even contemplate.
“Yes, it will be fine,” Margaery says. She has the queerest look on her face, a sort of quiet determination, and something else Sansa can’t name. A hardness, not unlike the way she looked before she hugged Sansa but different, too. Sansa twines her fingers in Margaery’s own and prays for her friend.
The bells ring on.
“Margaery, will you do something for me?” Sansa asks, struck by a sudden thought. She releases her hold on Margaery to fumble at the clasp of her necklace. It’s a simple gold chain, courtesy of Lord Tyrion. “Will you wear this? I know it’s not very fancy, but it would look nice with the blue of your gown, and – please say you’ll wear it.”
Margaery allows Sansa to press the chain into her palm, but she’s frowning quizzically. “Thank you, Sansa, but – I promise you, I already have plenty of necklaces,” she says, and she giggles but she still looks confused.
Sansa twists her hands, trying to figure out how best to explain herself. She’s oddly flustered, nervous, and her stomach feels as twisted up as her hands. “You’ve just – you’ve been so brave, and so good to me – your whole family has, of course, but you especially. I’m very grateful.”
“You know I was happy to help.”
“I know,” Sansa says. She tries to smile. “In my stories, the stories I read when I was younger, it was always customary to give a knight a favour for luck before he rode into battle. You’re as brave as any knight I’ve ever met. Braver, actually.” She feels her cheeks heat up. She must sound so stupid.
Margaery stares down at the necklace in her hand, and then her face breaks into a grin. “Women always used to give my brother trinkets before every joust, and he kept each and every one. I never understood why before now.” She meets Sansa’s eyes, and her gaze is soft and fond. “Thank you, Sansa. I’ll gladly wear it.”
Sansa smiles again, and it feels more real, happier, in the light of Margaery’s own. She thinks, for a blinding moment, that if the world could freeze just then, just the two of them standing together with music in the air and the morning sun streaming in through the roof of the Sept, it would be almost perfect.
Margaery interrupts her dreaming by depositing the necklace back in Sansa’s hand and turning to face away, scooping the hair that tumbles down from the artful knot of braids and roses up and off her neck. “Will you put it on me?” she says, looking back over her shoulder at Sansa.
Sansa nods, and steps forward. She pulls the chain carefully around Margaery’s neck. The clasp escapes her for a moment, and she leans in to focus on her work. Margaery’s skin is creamy but not flawless under the chain, with a few small moles smattered across the knobs of her spine, and it is soft and warm when Sansa’s knuckles brush against it. Sansa’s mouth is inexplicably a little dry, and she hurries to finish. In the name of the Maid, she thinks, I charge you to protect all women, just like in the stories. Brave Margaery.
Once the clasp is set, she steps back quickly. Margaery turns around, smiling. There’s colour in her cheeks, and without the strange pallor she looks far more confident than before. “How does it look?” she says.
Sansa takes her in: the cat-like smile, the proud tilt of her head, and then the gold chain dangling lightly off smooth collarbones and dipping below the neck of her dress like a secret. Sansa smiles shakily. “Beautiful, of course.”
Margaery grins. “A lady’s favour,” she says, quietly, as if to herself, and she laughs.
The bells change then, switching seamlessly into a new melody, one that is joyous and jumpy and almost tingling with anticipation. In the city, it must sound glorious. Within the Sept, however, the sound echoes off the walls, becoming false and almost melancholic despite the brightness of the notes.
“It’ll be starting soon,” Margaery says. Her smile becomes oddly grim, then she meets Sansa’s eyes and it twists. There’s a strange desperation in her gaze, and she raises a hand to cup Sansa’s cheek. For a breathless moment, Sansa wonders if Margaery is about to kiss her. “You’d better run and find your husband, sweet girl,” is all Margaery says, however.
Sansa swallows and nods. Margaery turns and walks away, moving with light, quiet steps to circle the altar. She doesn’t look back to Sansa as Sansa leaves, although Sansa certainly looks back more than once.
She waits with the guard outside the doors until Lord Tyrion arrives. She doesn’t think about that odd moment and that odd thought, not once. Not even when the sun reaches noon-high and its rays slip past the awning of stone she’s hidden under, warming her face with a gentle touch like Margaery’s.