The Lamb of Winterfell (Sansatyrell & Nerdvore)

[nerdvore]

King's Landing had been abuzz about their new visitors. Every time dignitaries came through the city, one heard rumors, hearsay, long-held stories that had twisted and turned on the ears of those who weren't attentive, and the same was certainly true for House Tyrell. Word had spread about the great tragedy that had befallen Margaery Tyrell, her husband murdered by an assassin in the dead of night, though few were aware of the most secretive whispers on the wind that the late Renly Baratheon had not been lovers with the young, beautiful Tyrell but rather with the Knight of Flowers himself. Those sorts of rumors proved the most difficult to spread, for how mere mention of them tended to cause people to disappear.

But there were plenty more conversations and half-whispered wonderings to be had once the Tyrells had moved into The Red Keep; was it true? Was that fact? Could they truly..? There were many different topics on the small envoy from House Tyrell who accepted the hospitality of the crown in their time of struggle, but one in particular tended to be on the tip of every more frivolous tongue. It would have been a wonder if Sansa could separate the fact from fiction herself, with all that weighed upon her own head, but it was only a few days after the arrival of the Tyrells that she received her first opportunity to learn what was wheat and what was chaff.

As the prince's betrothed, of course Margaery had taken an interest in the young girl from Winterfell. She was to be the queen of King's Landing and all of Westeros come their wedding day, after all. There was just one small problem with that: it was Margaery's destiny to sit upon the Iron Throne. It would be easy to assume animosity, cruelty, and cunning to be on the tip of her tongue on account of the obstacle that stood in her way, and so any invitation would surely be suspect if her true ambitions were known. .. yet they were not. It was only normal that a visiting noble would want to have drinks and conversation with the girl who was to be queen, if she was so willing and able, and so it was that Sansa found one small lifeline in the everpresent gloom that had become her life in betrothal to Joffrey. An invitation, in pleasant script, to spend the afternoon in the company of Margaery Tyrell in the gardens closest to the Red Keep.

[sansatyrell]

It was rare that Sansa was allowed time for herself, beyond that needed to bathe or sleep. At best, watchful eyes followed her every move, whether on the soft beaches of Blackwater Bay, sand coating the hem of her dresses, or the Godswood, spies flitting between distant trees, purposefully obvious in their visibility. Naive as Sansa was, she knew why that was - Cersei never let a thing fall to chance. It was a reminder, sharp as a lion's claw, of her ownership by the Lannisters. Some days, Sansa felt no different from the lambs grazing on the plains, or the pigs kept in pens, the air heavy with the scent of hay, tickling her nose. At any moment, she could be dispatched.

The arrival of a Tyrell envoy would have brought much joy to Sansa's heart, had it been months ago. As it was, all she could think of was how she'd be paraded in front of the royal guests, not as the King's betrothed, but as a political key, wrought from ice, like to melt at any time. Then she would be sat next to Joffrey, and would have to endure his particular style of courtship. Indeed, that was what happened - though Sansa thought herself lucky that Joffrey ignored her for the most part, focusing his attentions on the Tyrell princess, Margaery entertaining him with a smirk so small and so precise, Sansa couldn't tell if she was genuinely enjoying Joffrey's company, or simply playing the part of a besotted girl in awe of her king.

Not that playing any other role would be good for Margaery, Sansa supposed.

The most distressing part was that she could see why the court so adored Margaery. Her hair was styled simply after the long journey, her dress far from the beautiful shimmering gowns of silvers and silks the Tyrells reportedly wore at home to combat the heat, but still she shone more than the rubies in the goblets or the emeralds in Cersei's necklace. More times than Sansa should count, she found herself staring at the princess, caught in the glitter of her eyes, the trail of her jaw, the precise fingers. After the feast, Sansa realised she'd barely eaten, so caught up in her admiration of the woman.

The note arriving was a shock, still. Sansa had dreaded opening the door once she heard the messenger call for her, mind full of fears of Joffrey being bored, needing his plaything. The scroll itself was different enough to intrigue Sansa, though, a ribbon of green around the parchment, tied in a golden flower, intricately designed. It seemed almost a shame to break it, but Sansa did, and read it, then again. She traced her fingers across the beautiful cursive, then found herself - shockingly - smiling.

It was hardly a decision - Sansa found herself walking to the Red Keep unbidden, feet finding the way as easily as if she had been pulled there by a piece of twine. She pushed through the doors into the godswood, the high walls around it confining the beauty. The heavy scent of smokeberries hit her immediately, ash laced with sugar, and she wondered through trees, until... She saw her.

[nerdvore]

The dappled sunlight shone through the canopy of the Godswood only intermittently, creating an effect not unlike that of the shining light on the bay during high noon. But where the cresting white of gentle waves played with the darkness of the water and the shimmering diamonds of the sun's rays, the gardens outside the Red Keep gave the impression of being not beside the water, but beneath it. The corridors of trunks and cobbled pathways formed tunnels for the wind to catch and cool off anyone who came out in the hottest parts of the day, and left the leaves rustling with sounds not unlike the ocean. But swimming through the serenity of the gardens was just one more way of remembering that Sansa was nothing more than a little fish kept, and those that swam without purpose tended to learn quickly what larger predators lurked in the dark.

The view overlooking the bay was where the sealed missive suggested Sansa could join the visiting princess, and while that could describe a fair number of places in the garden it described only one that had seating arrangements suitable for serving. Round a few bends, up a few slopes, and beneath a natural spreading of branches that had latticework built directly into them to create the pillars of a small gazebo, the table and plush seating available to a truly marvelous bay-breeze lay waiting for the young prince's pretty little betrothed. And so too waited Margaery Tyrell herself, in profile with the delicate finery cups the Lannisters only used for their truly honored guest easily hooked in her nimble fingers while she sipped at the warm tea inside. She was alone -- which in and of itself answered a few questions, as Olenna or Loras might well have been occupying the Lannisters in such a way that guaranteed Sansa would not be discovered or punished for wandering off.

But there were so many more questions raised.

Is it true what they say about Highgarden..? some of those more persnickety rumors liked to begin.

In truth, Margaery's jewelry was no less exquisite than when Sansa had first laid eyes on her, and her hair no less delicately, perfectly coiffed into a manner of both regality and simplicity. Small bangles on her wrists shifted ever slightly when she lowered her cup, watching the water distant rather than paying mind to any sun-dappled redheads who might have been arriving. The silver around her neck ended in a brilliant green emerald, positioned directly at the delicate lines of her clavicle as though it had been born from within her heart and just crested through the skin there. And oddly enough, a detail hard to have discerned from the seating prior, even her shoes seemed to be jewelry; the sun caught on them with a silvery glint that spoke of true metal, a likely uncomfortable sort of thing to walk in without the give and flex of good leather or cloth. The truly wealthy and noble were so rich, they could give up comfort in favor of finery wherever they liked seemed to be the impression.

.. but why so noticeable were the many bits of jewelry and shining things on Margaery Tyrell, where she sat in full splendor of the sun where it came in beyond the blocking shade of the canopy? Well, that might have been because it was all she was wearing.

Little wonder she was alone, then! There was not even a folded dress on the table to be seen, draped undergirdles filling the empty chairs at the table, or any proof at all that the Tyrell princess had not come to the garden as stark as a jaybird with nothing but her jewels to prove her worth. In profile, it did wonders for a figure that was so slender in shape, and yet gracefully feminine in where she swelled rather than dipped, that suggested even the fine dresses she had been seen in were like ill-thought drapery over a finely sculpted statue. The slightly heavy hang of her breasts behind her slim arm holding her tea cup fell like teardrops, and curiously given the warm hue of her skin, didn't show the telltale rings that Sansa herself had come to understand where the sun touched too hot on anyplace she'd left exposed. It was common in the bath to see the lines where her dresses began and ended, after all, but Margaery Tyrell .. had no such tell-tale changes in her skin tone, as though she were simply always exposed to the sun, just so.

And whether she heard Sansa or merely felt her gaze, finally Margaery turned her head the tiniest bit to glimpse her, with the crooked edge of her lip suggesting sly understanding of any surprise she might have caused. "The view is lovely," she said, of the bay.

[sansatyrell]

By the time Sansa found her way to the gazebo, she was a little pink. It was a hot day, the hottest she had experienced yet in King's Landing. The Stark in her thought of it as the last dying gasp of that summer. Whatever it was, the heat hung heavy as a blanket over them, and Sansa had been grateful to get out of the castle halls, the stone trapping heat like a bread oven. She had guessed at the location Margaery had meant, made her way up the slopes, gasping only occasionally. The most difficult part was her dress - she had worn the prettiest number she could have, a part of her wanting to impress Margaery, for some reason unknown to Sansa. But in the narrow paths, it kept getting caught on branches and brambles that had grown unnoticed. She had to go slower to allow for this, and so arrived later than she would have liked, embarrassed, and yes, pink.

For a moment, all Sansa did was take in the view. This part of the Godswood was one of the few areas not surrounded by a wall. The floor ended in a cliff edge, sloping slightly then dropping immediately off, making defense easier. That - with the canopy above them - gave them total privacy, Sansa realised, obscured from the castle, and not close enough to the edge to be seen from the ocean below. Sansa wondered if the location had been chosen for purely aesthetic reasons.

The breeze was calming, and Sansa closed her eyes for a moment to enjoy it. Then, her gaze found Margaery. After a moment of dazzling light impressing upon her retinas - Sansa had to blink it away - Sansa looked properly, and realised the offending - and yet beautiful - decorations were all that Margaery wore.

This time, Sansa found herself an even brighter pink. She felt she should look away, but couldn't, her eyes staring at Margaery hungrily, as if trying to see everything they could in case they would never see again. Sansa was entirely unsure why she found herself so enchanted - then blushed even more. Enchanted wasn't the right word - surely - it was just interest. Margaery was the only woman Sansa had seen bare besides her mother and Arya - and Arya hardly counted. Sansa told herself that, as she stepped forward, trying to rid herself of the childish blush - only emboldened by the realisation that Margaery must have found her way here bare as she was now.

Once, she had heard tale that in Highgarden, they wore dresses soft as air. Remembering Margaery's smirk, Sansa realised how likely it was that some Tyrell, generations back, had made that joke, that Margaery might have been the latest in the line of people habitually bare - and yes, Margaery would have to be, with her skin so gold from the sun, all over.

"Your royal highness," Sansa managed, curtsying, before remembering that Margaery wasn't a royal, as much as she may have looked it. "Thank you for this invitation. It was very kind of you."

[nerdvore]

Your royal highness. Well! If Margaery hadn't been wearing a little smirk before then, she certainly would have considered it when the redheaded Stark songbird brought with her some music to her ears. Of course, so many people always attributed slyness, cleverness, amusement, or deceit to the princess of House Tyrell once they got to enjoy her company when the simple fact of the matter was that she had been born with a crooked cupid's bow in place of where a lady's lips ought to have been, ever and always warring between luscious invitation to her kind eyes and thorny warning of what truly lurked behind them. For many, there was nothing more threatening than a woman who was their mental match. Like it or not, Margaery had very few options for making others think dimly of her thanks to the natural structure of her cheekbones and mouth making her seem as though she always held a secret close to her chest.

Not so, it seemed, from Sansa.

"You absolutely needn't call me that, Lady Sansa," Margaery insisted absolutely at once, even before she could relish how even this girl barely younger than herself could understand what so few others had yet grasped; that the clever princess of Highgarden was destined for royal purpose. "It's not clever to give one's own title to others, lest they think it their own for the taking," she said, the lightness in her voice a delicate match for the amusement in the curl of her smile. "And even aside from all that, I question my own kindness. I seem to have run you ragged just to come see me," she concluded, rising from the table with a nimble twist that flourished her napkin cloth off of the table beside the finery as though she absolutely couldn't forget the only scrap of silk actually worthy enough to touch her right now.

It was more than the fact that Margaery Tyrell was enchantingly naked, adorned in the flashing richness that only seemed to accentuate that the true jewel was the woman herself. It was that she seemed wholly unconcerned with any such propriety or worries about decorum that should have flooded anyone else's mind at the ideal. Not only was she bereft of tanning or pinking in the patterning that would have been expected from a princess who enjoyed the company of the open afternoon sky, but she had clearly been taught the ways to make it natural for her to be so. Even sheltered Sansa knew that a woman ought to have some natural protection from prying eyes past a certain age, and yet when Margaery stood up, the delta somewhere between the womanly flare of her hips gave no such solace in matching curls of the dark auburn of her hair. She, or an aide, had taken a razor to herself, or perhaps an ointment?

One way or another, she was bare in every sense, with something vulnerable and yet utterly not about the fact that the Tyrell princess was as bereft of hair beneath her eyebrows as she was clothing between her jewels. But she was certainly not without quick compassion, for how readily she dabbed her napkin to Sansa's sweating brow and blushing cheeks. "I've given you a glow unbefitting of the prince's betrothed," she tutted of her own poor judgement, a sweet scent of flowers and tea seeming to come on the air of the salty bay breeze alongside Margaery's sudden close proximity.

[sansatyrell]

As Margaery stood, tall against the backdrop of the sea, Sansa couldn't help but notice the lack of hair. For the past few years, Sansa had grown used to the burnt orange curls that rested on her lower lips, even as she and Jeyne Pool had secretly removed the hairs on their legs, as was apparently the fashion across the sea. As confused as Sansa was by the situation, as overwhelmed as she had felt since receiving the letter - not to mention after seeing the royal princess so naturally adorned - she couldn't help but take her in, words failing her as Margaery walked closer, trying her best to meet Margaery's eyes, knowing that at this closeness the princess was likely very aware of where Sansa had been gazing. Now unobstructed, she saw the curve of her bosom, the pertness of the flesh. She saw the softness of her belly, and Sansa felt her throat catch when she looked below it once more at such an unobstructed sex.

Even moreso than the utter bareness was the utter lack of concern Margaery had for her state of dress. It was as if she truly only worried about Sansa's wellbeing in that moment. And though Sansa was no longer naive enough to think that Margaery had no secret plots in mind - it seemed everyone here did - she felt pleased by the attention, and leaned into Margaery's touch, grateful as the napkin removed the sheen of sweat from her forehead.

Despite being curious about Margaery's attire, Sansa thought it would be rude to ask directly. Instead, she gave her bravest smile, fake as it was. "You're right, I apologise for the mistake," she began, finally keeping her eyes on Margaery's. Sansa wouldn't admit it, but she had never felt like a queen, potential or present, simply a cog in the clock of the game. "And you have nothing to apologise for, you're hardly responsible for the heat. I suppose I am simply less used to the direct sun than you are," Sansa realised her slip, quickly amended "My being from the north, and all."

[nerdvore]

"And yet you're not in the North any longer," Margaery pointed out without any hesitation, thought the potential meaning behind her observation spiraled out into a many armed kraken which seemed to have a danger at every endpoint. Was she warning her about how she didn't understand how things worked here, as opposed to her birth home? Or that she was far from those who she loved, and they themselves could now be in danger? Or was it nothing more than a pleasant, say-nothing observation which Sansa had learned that so many people of higher courts loved to participate in? Margaery Tyrell could well have been plotting something with nothing more than those little words, or she too could have been the sort who thought nothing important should be discussed over tea and sweet pastries in an afternoon rendezvous. Or perhaps it was another consideration altogether?

Not being in the North, would she still be expected to abide by what she had been taught in the North?

"A good thing for all, if you ask me. For we in King's Landing get to enjoy your beauty and your company, and you get to enjoy climes that don't require a wolf's worth of fur every time the sun sets," Margaery pointed out while gently clearing Sansa's face of it's ruddy, fetching glow. She folded the napkin delicately with a satisfied smile, reaching behind herself just far enough that she needed to stretch her arm in order to place it at an empty place at the table so it would not be thoughtlessly used by either of them in the future. Even the smallest motions, it seemed, had ways of captivating the attention when there were no fine silks to drape and hide them. The anatomy of an arm in motion, an elbow in bend, or a torso lifting just so to accommodate those moves turned out to have a grace and femininity to them that was hard to envision until it was seen .. and Princess Tyrell proved herself captivating in those smallest of movements.

"I have tea and cream cakes, if you'd like," she said brightly, the curious catlike turn of her smile seeming to understand Sansa's confused appreciation, but refusing to acknowledge it just yet. "They really do a marvelous job with sweet things in the kitchens here, don't they?" she added enthusiastically, for while Highgarden's chefs were certainly adept with sweets and breads, they had nothing on those here in the Red Keep so far as Margaery was concerned. Her words and a gentle hand falling to Sansa's side, warm and ever so slightly guiding, encouraged the sweet thing to join her at her private cliff-side hideaway. It was easy, in some small way, to imagine that she'd been whisked away entirely from the worst corners of King's Landing to somewhere .. safe.

Margaery Tyrell certainly wouldn't be so vulnerable if she didn't feel safe after all, would she?

[sansatyrell]

Thoughts of the North made Sansa's heart ache for times gone forever. The bitter cold seemed a world away from King's Landing, and yet more comforting than any amount of summer days or soft cushions. Certainly, winter had meant death, hardship, suffering. But it had meant building castles out of snow with Jeyne and Bran, it had meant sitting close to the fire and sipping a quarter cup of mulled wine, it had meant watching flakes drift past the window as she had fallen asleep in her chambers.

Here, even the knives seemed hot with summer, and the coolest water could never wash away the sense of unease she had whenever Joffrey looked at her, or whenever Cersei stared as if Sansa was a suckling pig, ripe for carving.

It was enough to make Sansa almost, but not quite, forget Margaery's nudity. At least, she was able to focus on something else. Since she had arrived, games had been played all around her. Only recently had Sansa been able to train herself to see the flow of the game. It was that which occupied her mind now. Margaery may have seemed the picture of the perfect princess, inviting the sweet suitor Sansa to sit by the sea. But Sansa had thought Cersei charming upon meeting her, too, and full well knew that impression had turned out to be as wrong as any she'd ever made. This could be - most likely was - an attempt to distract Sansa from the fact at hand; that for all the houses, she was a clear important piece in any attempt to gain power. That as beautiful as Sansa found Margaery, there was no telling what was going on in her mind.

"You're right, my lady, this is far from the North." Sansa chose her words carefully as she spoke, watching for the effect they caused. "It seems every house has a different way of living. I may have renounced the Starks as best I can, but I fear it will take more than those words for me to truly be a Baratheon, not for want of trying. I am the future queen, of course, and thus must choose my words with more care in future."

Sansa allowed herself to be guided towards the table, Margaery's hand first brushing against her waist, then taking her own, until she stood next to a chair. Unsure where to sit - or whether to sit at all - Sansa couldn't help but be enthralled by the scent of the cakes. She had always had a taste for sweet things, even beyond the lemon cakes she was so famed for, and had to restrain herself from eating immediately, waiting for Margaery's cue. Sansa may have been naive as a child, but she had learned the rules of decorum well, especially when dealing with fellow royals - even if Margaery didn't quite have the throne (and Gods, would it not hurt sitting one's bare rump on a throne made of swords?) The image almost made Sansa laugh, but she managed to keep it to a simple smile, hoping Margaery wasn't a mind reader. Said rump was wonderful, Sansa had observed in a quick glance as Margaery had stepped a little in front of Sansa, and to damage it would be cruel.

Not that Sansa would admire another woman's rump, of course, that would be silly.

[nerdvore]

"So long as you our to be our future queen of Westeros, surely you must," Margaery was all too quick to agree whilst she lead Sansa up the few small steps present to the cliffside spread and then pulled back the chair at the corner of the table, directly catty-cornered to the one she herself had been sitting in, so that she could help the young princess take her seat with every bit as much decorum as any gentleman might have been expected to show her. While Margaery was not strictly beholden to treat Sansa as though she were already her queen, the pair of them being far closer to equals than to one's better, it didn't seem quite as though she was being polite simply because it was expected of her. Perhaps it was the everpresent smirk that gave the impression that Margaery didn't do things simply because they were expected of her, or perhaps it was all those pesky rumors about how the Tyrell heiress was more of an enigma than anyone might've expected.

Whichever it was, her 'gentlemanly' nature toward Sansa seemed oddly, charmingly genuine as she helped her into her seat. Perhaps had it been her brother Sir Loras in her stead (equally undressed or not!) Sansa Stark would have had all the more reason to blush .. and yet it was difficult not to suspect that either Tyrell might have treated her so well. "I don't think I'll tease you with how wonderful it can be to not have to choose my words with just that carefully, given that my best marriage expectations might be to whichever Lord thinks he can bend his knee to me first, nor how ill chosen words can be my best defense against such boors." And now, it was clear, Sansa had been inducted into a very exclusive seating. One in which noble ladies with certain opinions best unspoken about the nobility could be spoken openly, in ways that even Cersei at her kindest had not invited. Margaery's demeanor was in fact playful, conspiratorial, and above all, understanding.

It was quite a lot of threat to unsteady, unsure eyes that wanted to drink in without being rude, and hands and lips that wanted to taste the sweets without being too quick, or a voice that wanted to speak and yet had been silenced so often with fear .. in a way, Margaery pushed those concerns aside as immediately as she could even before she settled her marvelous rump into the much-better-cushioned-than-swords seat she had occupied previously.

Sansa was allowed to do and say as she liked, so long as she was in Margaery's company, seemed to be what she was implying.

"But I can attest to just how exquisite certain freedoms can feel," she added, lifting the small kettle from the center of the table with an open offer to pour Sansa a cup of tea, the silvery finery of the kettle only seeming to reflect and amplify certain glimpses of the naked Lady holding it aloft.

A bit less rude to stare at a reflection, at least, if Sansa's wandering eyes were so inclined. And at the same time Margaery's expectant, offering gaze lidded just so while peering at Sansa's pretty features in a way that suggested .. well, she was quite free to admire Sansa's good looks without any such concerns, herself, no matter how catlike her expression might have been while taking in the sweet snowy songbird.

[sansatyrell]

Sansa could tell, if nothing else, that Margaery enjoyed treating her with politeness beyond her obligations. Perhaps it was a calculated decision, perhaps she simply was as kind as she seemed, but Margaery, Sansa had noticed, had been kind beyond her remit to the serving staff, making the young girls and boys blush alike. Cersei's smile had become especially tight lipped at that. It was entirely possible that Margaery was simply filling her role as a new aide to the future queen. And yet - everyone else who waited on Sansa, every day, did so with as little decorum as they could. Certainly, they called her the correct titles, remained appropriately demure, provided all that she needed. But Sansa was keenly aware that she was hardly liked in the castle, and that even when she tried to reach out to the staff, she had been brushed off. And yet they remained, even for tasks Sansa was used to doing herself. It had been particularly uncomfortable when Cersei had, with a cats grin, provided Sansa with a 'trained bather,' to clean her hair in the bath.

Sansa supposed Margaery wouldn't have felt quite so awkward being exposed to a stranger.

The awareness of the possibility of artificiality was what kept Sansa from blushing. Certainly, if this had been months ago, she would have been flustered. If it had been Loras - even if he had been clothed (and Sansa wondered, idly, whether Margaery's tastes for clothes extended to her whole family, or even the population of Highgarden itself), Sansa would have been overwhelmed.

It was strange, Sansa thought, how even talking to Loras hadn't quite made her feel so very aware of herself as simply seeing Margaery across the room had.

A little shocked at Margaery's outspokenness - silly, really, given her state of dress - Sansa realised she appreciated it, and her smile that time was one of shared humour. "You wouldn't want to marry a boor," she admitted, "If nothing else, they could hardly keep up with you." It was the first thing she had said to Margaery that hadn't been laced with full on nerves, or simple pleasantries at the feast when they had met. It felt a little daring to say such things - they were expected to adore whichever Lord was picked out for them - but freeing, too. "Although it would be better than marrying a boar. A pig would be rather smelly, and you'd have to worry that the chefs didn't steal him away." The wordplay was pure silliness, but it was the first time Sansa had felt free to be silly in months. She remained frightfully aware of where they were, that Margaery wasn't someone she knew, but Sansa was grateful all the same, raising her cup up to receive the tea, deciding not to respond to Margaery's veiled reference to freedoms, suspecting what she felt.

She couldn't help but glance at the kettle, the 90 degrees angle giving her a view of how Margaery's breasts seemed to bloom like clouds of water vapour, before looking back at her own mug, then taking a swig, the taste pleasant in her mouth, a rare positive association with something warm.

[nerdvore]

If Sansa had any worry about the slightly older woman being aloof or smugly superior toward her despite her kindness, treating her with all of her gentle words and smiles the same way she might have a young pup, she could perhaps be heartened when her wordplay earned a surprised laugh that would have been awfully difficult to fake. It came while she poured Sansa her tea, very nearly spilling a bit from the gentle shake of her mirth as well as proving that without corsetry ..

Laughter truly could be a beautiful thing, actually.

"I think that's hardly fair to the pigs, comparing them to some of the sort who might come suiting," Margaery followed up her laughter with a very quick, reproachful tone that bordered on the conspiracy. A heightened hiss in her whisper promised she wasn't actually trying to remain conspiratorially quiet, but rather using just a bit of theater in her response even before her smile gave away the game of her words. She shifted in her seat, pulling it closer to the table setting and making it clear just how closely they were actually sat by way of a subtle warmth preempting the tiniest brush of one of the Tyrell woman's long legs against the poor, barbed and tugged skirts that Sansa had lugged all this way up here. "Boars and boors, yes, of course," she said, a slight melodic rhythm amusing her with the slight rhyme, "but to lump piglets in with that sort does them a great disservice. Though I must admit, my family does question my fondness for them, so perhaps that's just in the eye of the beholder," she continued fancily, with the smile of someone remembering the toddling clumsiness of pink young suckling pigs who had not yet realized their destiny. To some, they were as ugly as any wild forest boar, but Margaery very much did not see things that way.

"Do they let you keep any animals in the Keep, Lady Sansa?" she asked her gamely along the same line of conversation, taking the serving tray and the shiny knife upon it to very easily and without question, offer, or opportunity to protest, served her companion a piece each of the delicate cream cakes she had commissioned for the afternoon, each one adorned with a different berry and colored with what seemed to be a mash of them between the layers of pastry. "My brother complained that I would often spoil and fatten the piglets at Highgarden, but isn't that precisely what they're for?" she asked aloud, seeming to think for a half a second before deciding to give Sansa a fourth cake as well upon deciding that there was no harm in indulging while it was the two of them, after all.

And to Sansa's luck, if she had been hoping to ask, the last was the sole sort garnished not with berries, but with lemon.

[sansatyrell]

Sansa laughed along with Margaery, listened to her words, melodic even when she wasn't rhyming. Margaery would have been an excellent mummer, Sansa thought, with her talent of changing her voice, her body language, her facial expressions, creating a richness to her conversation that was rare. Certainly, Sansa had seen it in others - the imp Tyrion, for instance, was equally skilled with words, but his wit was of a dryer kind, a sharp point rather than the orchestra that was Margaery. It was like a summery cider, of the kind she and Jeyne had enjoyed sips of a few days within coming to King's Landing, the rich berries sweet against their tongues.

The thought of Mummers made Sansa remember something she had long since thought forgotten. A troupe had traveled to Winterfell to honour the birth of her brother Rickon - they called it tradition, but the small smile her father had at that had shown Sansa, even as a young girl, that it wasn't such. But they were entertaining enough to divert them for the eve, with swordfights that delighted Bran and Arya, enough political humour to amuse her parents without going anywhere near treason. The Starks did have a sense of humour, contrary to popular belief, but it was certainly absent when someone insulted the king in front of Eddard. But as fond as those memories were, Sansa wasn't quite as surprised by them as she was one very particular moment.

It had been late in the evening, and even some of the adults were tired. Sansa certainly was, though she would never have admitted it. Her mother had told them all to sleep, but had allowed them one final performance. A young girl of only 18 had stepped up onto the stage. Sansa couldn't remember any of what she had said, simply the beauty she had said it with, the way she had smiled. Sansa had decided there and then she would have loved to have made this woman smile. When the troupe left, the next morning, Sansa woke up sunrise early to watch them leave. She had begged her parents to bid them return again, before realising she was being silly. Just as silly was her weeks long daydream of running away to become a mummer, perhaps befriending this mysterious woman with hair of night and skin as brown as the stage they danced upon. She had never mentioned it to anyone, made herself forget the woman - and Sansa flushed to remember.

She was brought directly back into reality by the touching of a knee against her own. Sansa glanced down, did her very best not to look further up the leg. For a fleeting moment, she thought Margaery looked far better suited, clothing wise, to the weather. Her legs were radiant in the sun, whilst her own skirts had small marks from grass, small rips from thorns. It wasn't ruined - she could certainly salvage it far better than the seamstress she would inevitably be told to give it to - but it seemed cumbersome, somehow, inappropriate.

Sansa smiled again, though, as Margaery waxed lyrical of what Sansa assumed to be just farm animals. "They are rather sweet," she allowed, even if she herself was amused by the strange obsession, "And can be very intelligent, for an animal. I suppose even they know when they're in the presence of a highborn lady such as yourself, Lady Tyrell.

Sansa took the plate - the slice of cake rather hefty - as Margaery talked, eyes widening just a little as more slices were piled upon, until no more would fit. She quickly set it in front of her, so as to avoid the change of a spillage. "No, no pets. I used to have a Direwolf, but..." She breathed, "She died on the journey here." To speak of what truly happened, even in a place private as this, would not be a good idea, she knew that much. "But I sometimes watch the birds in the mornings, flitting around and making their nests."

[nerdvore]

Flattery seemed as though it would get you everywhere so far as Margaery was concerned, for the way her eyes veritably lit up at Sansa's recognition that even simple, sweet animals could recognize her higher class of being suggested in a surprisingly guileless way just how much pride the other woman took in her status. There were many, many Lords and Ladies who never once thought to second guess or be thankful for the things that they had in life, their privelege and riches simply expectations that had become as dull and necessary as the act of breathing. Margaery was not one of them, much as Sansa herself was not. Recognizing one's own gifts, earned, given, or stolen was an important thing for recognizing one's place in the world. And while perhaps her visitor at the table might have gone back and wondered what her life might have been had she run off to be a mummer rather than following through on her childish dreams to be a Lady -- would she still have a father, even one she did not see? -- for Margaery there could be no greater joy than to be highborne. Not just highborne, but the highest of the high, whether through family, marriage, or combination thereof.

To be Queen, though even the pride in her expression did not give away how deeply that destiny twisted away at her strands of fate from sunrise to sunset each and every day.

"A shame for them, perhaps," she suggested as she herself sat back, the few crumbs on her plate suggesting that she had had her fill of sweet cakes in the time waiting for Sansa's lovely, panting arrival and was more than content to let her guest now gorge. Reclined, her back straight and her shoulders set, she sat ever very much like a Queen ought to have and the way Ladies in finishing often found such difficulty in doing so effortlessly. Her chin high and yet her eyes turned so as to not be looking down was one particular angle of regality .. and yet her naked breasts, equally high, and equally turned for appreciation and forthright visibility were hardly queenly.

Or were they? Perhaps a queen or a Lady in Highgarden always proudly displayed her empress' silks, light as the air as they were? She made it seem effortless, and in her beam of sunlight coming from the bay rather than through the canopy, she was very nearly golden in her radiance. Compared, perhaps, to the few grass stains and branch-sticking and trickles of sweat that had touched her guest .. there was a clear difference between them besides mere choice of attire. But .. a shame? "For they are sweet, they are intelligent, and they are adorable. But I am a Lady, and they are piglets, and they are still scrumptious." Her smile showed no shame; such was the way of the world.

Those below always served those up above.

"I'm certain if your wolf were here with us today, she would agree. Though perhaps there are a few Lords she might find equally scrumptious regardless of status," she suggested with the same sleekness of smirk, teasing out the idea as though to welcome Sansa to (if not speak of) at least think of who might have best fit between the jaws of her late, departed friend. There could be catharsis in such imaginings, after all.

There was much catharsis, in very many imagined things, she considered while hiding her smile behind her teacup briefly but not at all hiding the studious friendliness with which she seemed unwilling or unable to ever truly look away from Sansa.

"I've heard tell that you are a bit of a bird yourself, Lady Sansa, a songbird so the rumors go. Don't worry, I didn't have any ulterior motive in inviting you here to let me hear the truth of that, but it did make me wonder. Birds like those in the Godswood can come and go and make their nests as they please .. but songbirds so often sing because they are not free to do anything else.

Do you envy them?"

And after that brief pause, she did look away from Sansa, gingerly crossing her legs beneath the table in a way that slid her leg against her skirts one more time while she caught sight of a fluttering motion in the latticed canopy above them. The freedom of the garden birds was enviable, after all ..

But like piglets and wild boars, how many free birds found an arrow in their breast and the feathers plucked from them as the price of their freedom? There was safety in being a caged pet, in some ways.

.. though even then, sometimes, it seemed as though you could still be scrumptious.

[sansatyrell]

If Sansa had known how powerful her words of flattery could be... But perhaps if she did, she would have been reluctant to use them. To have such an effect on Margaery would have some cause, she would know that much; and perhaps she would begin to suspect her royal hopes. Sansa felt uncomfortable intentionally using her words as a weapon, even as she suspected more and more that it would become necessary. Sansa herself had once been the sort Margaery stood herself apart from; living as the daughter of Lord Stark, she had rarely considered all that she was used to as anything more than simply every day life. No longer; Sansa was keenly aware of the corruption that dripped in heavy droplets down the walls of the royal houses. Her father had tried to stay above the dishonour. And Sansa still cried to think of what happened to him.

Sansa began to eat, then, enjoying the taste thoroughly. The cakes were just as she liked them; a firm coating of icing giving way to soft, moist insides, the mixture of tastes coming together in a symphony of eating. The first slice was devoured far too quickly, and Sansa only felt it polite to eat the next - but slower this time. She was hardly used to seeing Margaery in such a state on undress. Such a thing, likely, was impossible for Sansa. But she had stopped sneaking glances, stopped feeling like some silly girl with a silly infatuation with a Lady.

Infatuation isn't quite the right word. Interest? Perhaps.

Still, it wasn't rude to admire how very fitting Margaery looked in the sun, or so Sansa told herself. And she did - as if she was borne, not of womb, but of the sun itself, a droplet of fire and light and warmth burying itself in the ground, Margaery climbing out fully formed from beneath the soil, untouched by dirt or clothes alike. If such a silly fantasy was true, Sansa supposed, then Margaery's attire would make perfect sense. As it was, she was still bemused, so focused on the cakes. She didn't feel uncomfortable at Margaery's nonchalance for eating the creatures she so cared for. Sansa herself had never thought of her food much - beyond the sweets and cakes, of course - before it ended up upon the table, but she thought Margaery's attitude made sense. Perhaps it was kinder for her to get to know the piglets, watch them grow, so that by the time they were simply meat on a plate, Margaery understood entirely what they were, had known them more than just the pig the farmer had sold that morning.

Or perhaps the sun was simply baffling Sansa's mind.

"Lady would never eat a human," Sansa said, with a slight frown. "She was very well trained, and wouldn't even hunt squirrels unless I bade her so." Sansa ate more cake, to calm herself, then nodded. "I don't often sing, not since I was young. But I have always loved songbirds - even the ravens and crows and robins we have up north. And better a song bird than a pigeon, and better both than a chicken."