Chapter 2
Sansa looked at herself in the mirror. It was tall, so tall that her whole body was visible in it. Her long red hair was woven into a simple plait, a northern style for a northern queen. For her gown she chose one in the realm between southern flamboyancy and northern dullness, as if it was tailored to describe her approach as queen perfectly. She wished to retain the honesty and honour of the North, with the cleverness and beauty of the South. Sansa had never wished to be a boy, like Arya. She had loved the gowns and the feasts and the revelry. But war had done to Sansa the opposite of what it had done to Robert Baratheon many years before; it had left her with little desire for the finer things. There were things more beautiful than fine stitching and exquisitely woven hair. Sometimes Sansa wondered if she should dress like Arya, with her man clothes and short hair like a boy’s. Maybe the men of the court would take her more seriously then. But Daenerys had never yielded to the gender expectations of Westeros’ backwards thinkers and Sansa certainly would not.
A delicate knock on the door halted her train of thought.
“Yes?”
The shadows retreated as the door opened, light spilling in from the hallway. Margaery Tyrell entered with it, an unreadable expression on her face. Simultaneously the most irritating and admirable quality that the Tyrell woman retained was her impenetrable facial expression. Sansa was the opposite, an ‘open book’ as her mother had told her many times, similar to the real books she liked to read.
“Your majesty.”
“Please, call me Sansa.” She moved away from the mirror, taking a step towards Margaery, who hovered at the door. “You used to.”
“Sansa. I only wish to apologise. And perhaps explain myself?” She said the last words like a question. As if asking permission to speak her mind. Everyone needed permission to speak to Sansa now, apparently.
“Come in, sit down.” Sansa gestured to the couch near her bed and moved to close the door. Margaery sat, small hands folded delicately upon the silk of her dress. Sansa sat down on her bed, facing her. “What do you wish to apologise for? I meant what I said earlier. None of it matters to me now.”
“You push away old squabbles for the sake of the crown, I understand that.” Margaery’s fingers twisted together, tangling and untangling like locks of hair. “But we are not in the throne room now. I do not ask to see the face of my Queen, only the face of a friend who slipped from my grasp.”
Sansa tensed at the word ‘friend’. “Were we ever truly friends?” Before Margaery could interrupt, she continued (she had become quite skilled at intercepting interruptions). “It’s okay Margaery. I understand you now.”
“You understand me?” Margaery looked bemused. “What do you mean?”
Sansa stood up and moved over to her dressing table where she sat and began to unravel her braid. “I mean your power. How you work. You use false goodness and false honesty to make everyone do exactly what you want them to.” As her hair fell around her shoulders, she reminded herself of Brienne’s wise words. People are not always as they first seem. “Or you used to, I have no idea who you are now, Lady Margaery.”
Sansa scooped her hair over one shoulder and began to brush out the tangles. She waited for the smooth words of denial to flow from Margaery’s lips.
“You’re right.”
“I am?” Sansa stopped brushing and turned to look at Margaery, who was looking directly at her, hands motionless on her lap. Her face seemed open. As much as Sansa tried to remind herself that Margaery Tyrell would never truly be open, always a closed book, honesty was all she could read from her eyes.
When Margaery spoke, she didn’t look away. “When I was a little girl, my grandmother used to tell me stories of queens who not only gave their kings heirs but also whispered clever ideas in their ear. Queens that were really kings in gowns.” Margaery’s eyes drifted then, to another time, another tale. “There was even one warrior-queen who ruled without a king. She founded Dorne.”
“Nymeria.” Sansa said, smiling sadly as she remembered Arya’s missing direwolf, whom she had named after this warrior queen. Sansa still missed Lady.
“Yes, that’s her. But I am not Dornish and would not want to be. I just wanted to be the queen.” Margaery seemed sad too, as if mourning the dream she had won and lost so many times. “When I saw Cersei for the first time I was so disappointed.” She smirked humourlessly. “I knew I could do better than her.”
“You were right.” Sansa said stoutly. “You outlived her at least.”
“But you’re the queen. Not me. You.”
A younger Sansa would have awkwardly apologised for her circumstance. Queen Sansa just took in this version of the Lady Tyrell, a lady whose dreams were crushed just because she placed her bets on the wrong side. Sansa was not fond of Margaery’s methods of winning power. It made her wary. Her obsession with becoming queen could easily pose a threat to Sansa. In this moment though, she just saw a woman who had lost not only her family but also her lifelong dreams and ambitions. All Margaery had, throughout it all, was her ambition. What would keep her going now? Was she still fueled by this blind desire, despite losing everything time and time and again?
“So why would you want to be on my small council? Mine, the woman who has all that you ever dreamed of?”
“The war changed us all, Sansa Stark. You know that better than anyone.” This was true. “And I am done with my ridiculous fancies. I tried being queen. I presumed that to be the queen was to be unopposed by everyone but your husband. I was wrong. When I was Renley’s queen, he was never even the true king and I had to compete with my own brother for his affections.” Sansa did not raise her eyebrows at this. Everyone had known about Loras and Renly’s affair, and frankly, the whole idea of pillowbiters did not offend her. “Not that I minded of course. Affection was never my desire.” She glanced at Sansa as she said this. “When I was Joffrey’s queen, I not only had to compete with his mother but also my grandmother’s poison.”
Sansa gasped. “It was Lady Olenna! I always wondered.”
“I knew it was callous but I felt relief as my husband lay on the ground, dying.”
“Anyone would.” Sansa knew the evil of Joffrey Baratheon and the relief Margaery described. She had felt the same when Margaery had first arrived to replace her as his betrothed. In doing so, Margaery had likely saved Sansa’s life, not that she would ever admit that to her now. The daughter of an allegedly traitorous Stark married to a twisted Lannister boy? It could not have ended well.
“And Tommen was constantly under Cersei’s thumb, to the point that I spent time in the Black Cells because I posed a threat to her. Your role is different, of course. There are few left for you to compete with. If you were wondering whether I might become a competitor, please rest easy.” Margaery’s face was set as she said these words. “I will never be Queen again.”
She had thought much about this, Sansa could tell. Her wariness shrunk back and Sansa hoped she would not regret the fragile trust which replaced it.
“Thank you. That is… good to hear.”
“Thank you for listening, my queen. Now,” The woman leaned forward almost imperceptibly, a twinkle in her eye. “Do you think you will marry again? Surely it is just as necessary for a woman ruler to marry as with a man.”
Sansa’s heart squeezed at the prospect of this. It was true she had been considering the necessity. Her Hand and former husband, Tyrion Lannister, had been trying to subtly introduce the idea. The very idea of marriage, even subtly presented, brought an influx of unhappy memories to Sansa’s mind. She had been forced into wedlock with Tyrion, a union which Queen Daenerys had annulled by royal decree the moment Sansa had asked. Worst of all though, was her matrimony with Ramsey Bolton. Sansa still did not like to think too long on that period of her life.
“I suppose I must remarry.”
“You are not enthusiastic about this.” It wasn’t a question.
“No. I am not.”
Margaery’s face took on a thoughtful expression. “Have you considered the options? I only ask because I could perhaps be of use. I have experience in this department. Likely more than the Hand.”
“Tyrion had many suggestions, none of which enticed me.”
“Do tell.” Margaery leaned back. She was in her element.
“Theon Greyjoy.” Sansa sighed.
“The man that tried to kill your brothers?”
She nodded.
“He does not sound like a trustworthy husband. Ambitious spouses never go well if you are the one in power.” Margaery pointed out. “Trust me, I know.” She added with a smile.
“His other options were my cousin Jon and Ser Podrick Payne.”
Margaery seemed impressed by these choices. “Both decent options. Did your cousin not refuse the crown though?”
“Yes and there is no way he would marry me, nor me him. He may be my cousin by blood but he will always be a brother to me. The Targaryens and Lannisters may be comfortable with incest but I am, and always will be, a Stark.”
“And Ser Podrick?”
Tyrion had suggested Pod as an afterthought. He was not born of a great house but his allegiance with Brienne and Tyrion had brought him great prosperity after all was said and done. He was a sweet man and therefore the best of Tyrion’s suggestions. Yet still, Sansa was reluctant.
“He is not… a terrible selection.” Sansa said quietly. Margaery’s shoes were embroidered with gold thread, the Tyrell flower that decorated all her garments.
“No. Not terrible at all.” Sansa could feel the other woman’s eyes on her. “Sansa.” Her name sounded sweet on the Lady’s lips. Sansa raised her eyes to meet Margaery’s. Her expression was soft and her hand softer as she reached out and took Sansa’s. “You will not be hurt again. You are smarter than Robert and Joffrey and Cersei and even Daenerys.”
Sansa held back the tears prickling her eyes as she looked into Margaery’s and saw someone who truly believed in her. There were few that did so, fully and honestly. The fragile trust between the two was solidifying with every moment their hands remained clasped together. Something more than trust fluttered in the Stark Queen’s chest. A hope, a warm golden hope, blooming like a Tyrell rose. What this hope was for, Sansa could not discern.
“Thank you, Margaery,” she whispered. “I am glad to have you by my side.”