“It’s Stravinsky,” he says to Sansa with his head held high. Of course she knows it is. “Though, I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t heard of him.”
His sneer must have reached Margaery’s brain before the redhead’s, because she replies before Sansa can so much as open her mouth.
“I’m sure Sansa knows all about Stravinsky, as classical music is her area of expertise-” she softly presses two of her hands atop Sansa’s and smiles at her warmly. “Wouldn’t you say?”
“I wasn’t asking you,” Joffrey cuts in, dripping with disdain.
Margaery simply smirks in self-satisfaction as Sansa rushes to appease him, practically tripping over her feet in the process. Throughout the redhead’s ramblings, though, Joffrey maintains his glaring eye contact with Margaery, and she keeps her hands encased around Sansa’s. This is war, her eyes say. He confirms silently.
Nervously shifting her weight and looking down at her dress, Margaery waited for the door to open after ringing its bell. Fuck, she thought, what are you so worried for? Sansa had seen her hundreds of times by now. Even if she hadn’t pored over her makeup and tried on at least five different dresses in front of a very enthusiastic Loras, Sansa would never judge her for looking a bit disgruntled. Of course she wouldn’t- She’s better than that.
Though, the third party accompanying them isn’t.
And speak of the devil, because just that second Joffrey himself swung the door open, beady eyes scanning the porch before resting on Margaery’s. It’s almost like clockwork the way his resting bitch face twists into a shit-eating grimace.
“Marge!” she hears an elated cry and, fuck, does Sansa look amazing tonight. With her hair pinned back, expertly done makeup and pale pink dress complimenting her porcelain skin and icy blue eyes, Sansa is the splitting image of the Disney princesses of her childhood adoration.
She’s glad that Sansa continues as if she hadn’t noticed Margaery’s speechlessness, because she doesn’t think she could handle the embarrassment otherwise.
“Oh, these are lovely. You look great too,” Sansa’s quick to add, causing Margaery’s brain and chest to short circuit. Before Joffrey can begin his routine tyrade of sneers at her silence and light blush, Margaery finds her voice. She’s a Tyrell, for chrissakes.
“Ah, Loras helped me assemble them. This is for you-“ she hands Sansa her bouquet with a warm smile- “And these are for you. Consider it a housewarming gift.” The war Margaery wages on the blonde with her eyes, smirk, and bundle of flowers is vicious, and Joffrey can sense it, just not exactly why.
If Sansa can sense the tension, she chooses to stay silent, instead ushers her in while Joffrey rolls his eyes and swiftly shuts their front door. Their attention has been shifted to the bouquets as Sansa places them into vases on their counter. Joffrey lets Sansa arrange his- yellow carnations, geraniums, orange lilies, and petunias arranged impeccably- treating it like a ticking time bomb. He doesn’t quite know how to approach it, if it’s to be trusted. Perfect.
Halfway through the evening, Margaery is almost certain Sansa is determined to destroy her with oblivious flirting. Three-quarters through and she’s sure of it. She should’ve known, really. However beautiful her bouquet was- gardenias, red carnations, and blue violets (sue her)- Of course it would’ve blown back up in her face.
It started when the wine came out, like all Lannister drama tends to. A fine Dornish red to accompany their meal and Sansa’s cheeks are as red as her hair two glasses in. It’s bad.
“Margaery!” Sansa exclaims in mock indignation at her retelling of the time they walked in on Renly and Loras in bed. To be truthful, she’s mostly telling the story to see Joffrey squirm in discomfort- It’s the same reason the aforementioned two turn into overly-affectionate queens in his presence.
It’s satisfying, but Sansa is giggling far too much at the story and Joffrey is getting more irritated by the second. Margaery wants to see the kid writhe in his seat, not an outburst most likely taken out on Sansa.
“Y’know,” Sansa breathes heavily, “I’m surprised you weren’t as embarrassed as me.” And of course Joffrey has to cut in, because he’s drinking Lannister servings despite not being able to hold his alcohol.
“We aren’t all as prude as you, dear.”
She sees red.
Sure, Sansa can be a bit demure, but it isn’t a flaw. It’s endearing. If Robb were here, oh, if only Robb were here. She’d do anything to see that smug fucker’s face go purple.
Margaery says, “There’s a big difference between being a prude and being promiscuous, dear. Not that there’s anything wrong with either, but when you pressure girls into it, your sex life gets a bit closer to felony” and gets close enough.
All hell is about to break loose, Margaery can just smell it, but Sansa- bless her heart- manages to calm him down in the kitchen. She supposes she should feel guilty instead of sipping her wine with a self-satisfied smirk, but he’s had that a long time coming, even with all the shovel talks he got from the Starks. Robb would be proud.
Despite insulting her beloved and surely almost giving him an aneurysm, Sansa’s kindness is unfailing if a bit watered down at the shift in atmosphere. And then- And then it starts.
Margaery tries to ignore it when Sansa’s hands find hers on the table, relishing in the touch and Joffrey’s reaction. When Sansa starts that giggling again, though, that’s when she becomes more intrigued.
She’s seen that look on Sansa, around when she started dating Joffrey. The blushing at every word, trying to physically touch whenever possible, uncontrollable giggling and extreme interest in whatever conversation was being held. Perhaps she was just imagining things- Alcohol loosens the tongue and dulls the senses- But then Sansa puts her head down on Margaery’s hands while laughing and- oh.
“Your hands are so soft,” she breaths, and Margaery doesn’t even know if Joffrey can hear it. She hopes not.
His expression is sour (what else is new) but it’s becoming more so by the second; His face well resembles a petulant child denied a toy. Margaery thinks she ought to tell him so.
She feels something soft and warm on her hand and, Gods, she’s dreamed about Sansa’s lips on her body so many times but never in the presence of Joffrey-fucking-Lannister. In her fantasies Sansa would leave Joffrey in a bout of clarity, eloping with Margaery to the applause of their friends and family and jumping straight to a honeymoon in Dorne. Having Sansa drunkenly and discreetly kiss her hand across the table from her Lannister boyfriend of almost a year is not a honeymoon in Dorne. Far from it, really.
“Okay, Sans,” she jokes, hopefully nonchalantly, lifting the girls head up from the table. Sansa’s face is flushed and she looks a bit too elated for it to be simply inebriation. If there’s one thing other than expert snark that Margaery learned from Olenna Tyrell, it’s how and when to go into damage control mode.
Sansa all but collapses into Margaery’s arms when she stands up and wraps her arm around the girl, and why in Seven bloody hells is Joffrey just watching this? Sansa seems to be having the same thought, because her eyes flicker from Joffrey to Margaery and back again until she bursts out laughing. His face is starting to go purple again and he decides to scowl and retreat to the kitchen as Margaery begins to take her leave.
“C’mon,” she coaxes Sansa along like a stray kitten, and she really, really shouldn’t be as okay with this as she is. Sansa obeys her eagerly, walking to her front door to see Margaery out. It’s ironic, she thinks, that she’s the one helping Sansa to see her out. They step onto the girl’s porch and Margaery is facing her now and is preparing to say her goodbyes when the world stands still.
Sansa’s bending down just a little bit and before she knows it their lips are pressed together. It’s a bit sloppy and far too chaste for Margaery’s liking but Seven bloody hells she’s waited forever for this, urging her not to give a shit about Joffrey or the flowers or anything else and to just takes Sansa’s face in her hands and deepen their kiss. So she does just that.
Again, everything is over much earlier than she’d have liked, and she’s left high on dry on their porch with a kiss on the cheek and a breathless goodnight. It takes everything in her to not collapse on the spot.
Margaery thinks she’s going to be consulting Loras for help with flower arrangements far more often.