I hope I displayed them properly. I guess I could ship them, but it'll never happen between them. ive been so depressed i just need to get writing.
Disclaimed! I do not (oviously) own got.
"And so, from being created in his likeness, to being banished for wanting to be too much like him,
we were cast out, and the garden of Eden transformed in to the garden of Evil."
The poor thing's a child, Margaery notices. Despite sliding the manipulative care-free harlot persona around her like a cape, she really was watchful. Sansa, eyes red and face sullen in court, walking down the many hallways, as if lost, as if she'd never walked them before.
She'd heard some men call the Throne room in the Red Keep was the entrance to the Underworld, and you could make a deal with the devil before you went.
It's the opposite way around, Margaery would think. She heard three peasant children chase each other around, screeching "your fingers or your tongue?!"
Sansa must have chosen her tongue. There was a spark in her, subdued by the treachery that had happened to her but it was still there. The sharp glances and the small smiles were enough to prove to Margaery.
Sitting beside her in the open air of the garden the Tyrell felt at home. Sansa smelled like soap that was pressed hard into her skin to rub off the Lannister, the angry voices of the people.
Roses and other assortments grew carefully, but wild. It was a whole realm away from the chaos that happened. Time always slowed in a garden. There were four gardeners to clean and trim the flowers like pretty ladies, and Margaery avoided them like the plague because they were gossipers. Employed by Cersei, no doubt.
Sliding a blue flower into Sansa's hair, Margaery tells her of the time Loras knocked over a sack of wood (leaving out how he was watching two nearly naked men fighting, and had only knocked the pile of lumber over when he was trying to quell arousal) that ran into two men practicing sword fighting. "You should have seen how fast he ran!"
The Stark loved stories about Loras, despite never marrying him.
The blue flower complimented her red hair and pretty grey eyes, which held the description of cloudy glass. Margaery told her so, inflicting a small blush and slightly stuttered thank you.
"Are you excited for the wedding, Lady Margaery?" Sansa asked, her small hands folded in her lap. Her spine is straight as a needle, her hair flowing down like spun copper. The Tyrell
Margaery clapped her hands together, feigning excitement. She was more excited about the dress, intertwining silver thorns and white fabric. A mockery of virginity. As if a man's genitals were so important it changed who someone was.
"I have the most beautiful dress. It's as white as infant's skin and fits like a glove." She smiled, played with a lock of hair and gently took one of the Stark's clammy hands into her own.
She could take the hand, kiss it, press it to her heart but Margaery knows Sansa sees her as a sister. A twisted, seasoned older sister with pretty hairstyles and a ear always ready to lend.
A kiss pressed her hair, a forehead against her shoulder; Margaery gives caresses that are not perverted; no they are of a older sister with yearns of emotions that are never given to one of family. She ponders that while thinking of the Kingslayer and Cersei.
The Stark wears pretty dresses. Magaery never wonders what's beneath them. She knows there are developing breasts and hips. She knows that she is older then Sansa, and perhaps the Tyrell will wait, wait until the next life. They both have duties.
They'll never end up together; the tales of being rescued and true love are wasted on them. But it's the road most traveled.