Waiting bare in the bathroom.

The floor was an uncomfortable coldness against Sansa’s bare feet. Unlike the entrance hall, there was no glittering mosaic, curving up the walls, towards the ceiling. Instead, there was just smooth, varnished oak, dulled from the centuries, but maintained well enough – Sansa had no fear of splinters.

The entire room was like that, now that she considered it. Stunning, but lined with the memory of danger.

Sansa tried not to think of how well that described her mental state.

The window was wide, barred. Curtains hung on both sides - a rich, dark green, sunset orange woven through. Between, Sansa could see the real sunset. This one was more pink, with purple wreaths cascading around in spirals.

The war had been won. Margaery had led her forces, allied with the mother of dragons, and taken Westoros. In return for her aid, the Tyrell leader had been offered lands, not least including her native land of the Reach. If Margaery still desired the crown, she hadn’t mentioned it – not least out of her common sense.

Arguing with a Targaryen tended to end with someone in the belly of a dragon.

Sansa hadn’t been sure what would happen to her. A part of her was terrified – she was the only Stark that could be found. She didn’t want to remain a hostage, and didn’t want a war held over her. Mostly? Sansa wanted peace, and safety, and to be far away from any more battles.

The offer had been very tempting, then. Margaery had suggested Sansa come with her. With Sansa's half brother ruling the North, the pressure of being the Key no longer hung over her. All Margaery had asked for in return was:

"Advice, my dear, and your expertise on lemon cakes."

It had all been very coy, in fact.

They’d arrived late. Much of the country was gripped in the last wisps of winter, but they'd only had to go halfway there before the carriage had sweltered with heat. Sansa would never have complained; grateful enough for the sanctuary.

Still, she had been privately pleased to get out of there. Margaery’s handmaidens had guided her to the baths, stripped her, washed her down. It had been refreshing, and Sansa was grateful to feel clean again. Afterwards, they had taken their leave, and her robes, told her Margaery would meet with her when ready, leaving nothing to dress herself in.

The communication was clear; Sansa was to wait, bare, ****. And that’s how she was; sat on the edge of the bathtub, bracing herself, as she heard the clicking of the unlocking lock, finally saw the door handle open…