Sansa, it's perfectly natural to be curious about women your age.

Sansa had always found Margaery beautiful.

How could she not?

From a distance, the princess seemed to have strolled off a tapestry, the sort that illustrated the loveliest songs, perfectly formed. The picture of grace, a light in the darkness that was Sansa’s life at the time.

Closer, there were what others - not Sansa, never Sansa - would call imperfections. There seemed a knowingness to Margaery’s smiles, as if she was laughing at some joke only her and the Gods knew. Her eyes would play at innocence, but looking too deep, one would catch a glimpse of the intelligence behind.

Not that Sansa had made a habit of staring dreamily into Margaery Tyrell’s eyes.

Of particular infamy had been her choice in attire. Many of the other ladies - Sansa didn’t speak to them, of course, was never allowed that right, but one heard things - would whisper harshness about the cut of them.

Sansa, for her part, rather thought the low cut gowns suit Margaery, and that the skin seemed fine when it was her showing it.

And for those who were lucky enough to speak to her, and yet further, those who could have almost called Margaery a friend:

Sansa had felt listened too, understood, cared for - for the first time in a very long time. Margaery would promise Sansa of the fun they’d have once she left with her.

Countless nights, Sansa had fallen asleep to dreams of Margaery stealing her away from her horrors. They were so vivid, that she’d wake flushed and sweating, as if she truly had been standing under the sun, parts of her body still strangely warm as she’d try to recall the dream.

Sansa had cherished those talks, and still did the memory of them, even if now she knew Margaery had always had her own agenda.

It was the part of Sansa that recalled those wine scented days when Margaery walked in, and that’s the part of her that she blamed the sudden shortness of her breath on.

Sansa quickly became aware that anyone could see past Margaery, and so fast covered up. An arm across her chest, a crossing of her legs, that would suffice, but nothing could hide the pinkness spreading from her cheeks to cover her face.

Margaery was pink too, but the pink found from a hard days work under a warm sun. She’d changed from the light brown travel clothes, into a sky blue gown, more expensive.

And thinner, Sansa realised, unable to help noticing the ghost of Margaery’s areolae poking through the fabric.

“My lady,” she managed, staring at a point on Margaery’s forehead.

“My darling Sansa.” Margaery stepped forward, but left the door behind wide open, as if unaware of Sansa’s bareness. “I am so very glad to see you safe, at last. We have so much to discuss.”