oh forgot the number lmao, let’s go with sansaery and 8!
8 - in secrecy
Sansa ran her fingers over the rose petals as she watched Margaery reading. What was it she had said? Some women like tall men; some like short men... ugly men, pretty men, pretty girls. Her skin caught one of the thorns on the stem and she gritted her teeth.
Most women don't know what they like until they've tried it.
Sansa liked Margaery. She was kind. She was pretty.
"Can I ask you a question?" she said after a moment of hesitation.
Margaery looked up from her book and smiled. "Of course."
"It's rather... delicate."
The southern girl tilted her head to the side and laughed warmly. "Then you'd best come sit by me." She patted the cushioned bench where she was seated and closed the book in her lap. Sansa did as she was told. It made her nervous suddenly to be so close to her. Not nervous like Joffrey made her, though.
"It's about what you said earlier. About what different women like." Glancing around, Sansa made sure no one could hear or see them. The balcony they had found themselves on was open to anyone in the Keep and it overlooked some of the gardens, but no one else was around. Not even a lion-clad soldier. "You said some women... that some women like girls."
"Yes," Margaery encouraged.
"I've never heard of such a thing."
Margaery laughed again, but there was no malice in it. Sansa's cheeks flushed. Margaery's skin was soft when she took her hand. "It is the sort of preference that does not often see the sun. That kind of delight must keep to the shadows."
"Have you... do you... like...?" Sansa trailed off. It was impossible to say the words aloud.
"Do I like pretty girls?"
Sansa nodded. She looked down at where their hands were clasped. The rose was held between their fingers.
Margaery's voice was gentle, spring itself. "Sometimes. You are very pretty, Sansa."
"Not as pretty as you."
The world suddenly felt vast around Sansa. It faded into blurry colours and muted noise, and all that was left was the feeling of their skin against skin, as if it were the centre of everything.
"You are very pretty," Margaery whispered in her ear.
When Sansa turned to look at her, their noses brushed together. Her breath caught in her throat. She closed her eyes. It didn't matter who tilted her head up first, nor who squeezed whose hand first. All Sansa knew was that she felt warmth spread from where Margaery's lips were against hers. Like her fingers, they were soft. They were safe. She leaned closer into what felt like peaceful oblivion.
A clink of armour wrenched through the little haven they shared. Margaery broke away suddenly and her hands flew to the book still in her lap. Sansa's mouth hung open in surprise. She looked down at the rose Margaery had given her. She touched the flower as the armour-clad soldiers marched past with courteous nods to Lady Margaery. The petals felt strangely familiar now. They felt like her.
