Chapter Text
The fields of half-dead crops all seem to blur together as they speed down the highway. Margaery doesn’t even try to change the station to something less atrociously Christmas-centric, because this is Sansa’s favorite time of year. Margaery won’t try to steal away her Christmas joy.
“My family is going to love you,” Sansa assures her, somehow knowing that Margaery needs reassurance before she even asks for it. Sansa’s a fairly intuitive girlfriend, which is something Margaery, who isn’t adept at sharing her feelings, desperately needs. She’s fairly good at manipulating others around her to her will, but sharing her feelings is something that has been foreign to her nearly all her life.
“They know that I’m coming, right?” Margaery asks for what may be the thirtieth time. She’s heard the story, of how Sansa reminded her mother that she’d said that she could always have a boyfriend over for Christmas, and Sansa had asked if that applied to girlfriends. And then the tearful reunion and the “of courses” that had come from all sides, but Margaery needs to hear it again. She still remembers the time that Arianne Martell used her for shock-value, and though she knows that Sansa wouldn’t do that, it never hurts her to be reminded.
“Yes, Marg,” she says with a tone of feigned exasperation, “they know that you’re coming. Now, your only job is to charm their pants off.”
“I know I can do that,” Margaery says with her omnipresent flirtatious tone, “it worked with you, didn’t it?” Sansa turns bright red, the way that she always does when Marg is suggestive, but it’s only half from embarrassment.
“No flirting while I’m driving!” Sansa shouts, and she has to break their cruise control abruptly to avoid colliding into the car in front of them.
“Alright, alright,” Margaery coincides, “I won’t flirt while you’re driving.”
“Thank you,” Sansa says, regaining a portion of her calm as she resumes her cruise and gets back up to highway speed.
“I make no promises about later, though,” she asserts with a grin on her face. Sansa sighs in resignation because she’s used to it. She and Margaery have been dating nearly a year now and she knows the way that she is. Margaery loves her for it.
Sansa seems to have tuned her out for a moment, and is now singing along to the radio with her sweet, flute-like soprano voice.
“Silver bells,” she sings, “it’s Christmastime in the city.”
“Ring-a-ling,” Margaery joins in, knowing full-well that she is a terrible singer, “hear them ring. Soon it will be Christmas day.” By this point, Sansa is laughing (at her, which she’s frankly insulted by).
“Sansa,” she groans, but Sansa just keeps laughing.
“Every damn time,” Marg mutters, but Sansa just keeps gigging guiltily. Marg laughs too, as Winter Wonderland starts to play in the background.
“I think that I’m excited,” Margaery admits, “I’m scarred, but I’m excited.”
“That’s how I felt when I met your family,” Sansa says with a tone that is less comforting and more sadistic, as if Margaery’s just rewards for subjecting her to the entire Tyrell/Hightower clan at one time are on their way. Margaery shutters, but then Sansa laughs.
“They’re going to love you,” Sansa promises, her tone lightening enough that Margaery realizes her earlier tone was, in fact, joking, “Mom and Dad and all my siblings. They will love you.”
Margaery sighs a half-relieved sigh. She hopes that Sansa means it and isn’t just trying to make her feel less nervous.
They roll into the Starks’ driveway at eight o’clock, and the darkness has long since fallen over their Montana home. The snow twinkles under the lights and Margaery starts to realize just how cold this Holiday break will be.
“We’re here,” Sansa says with a tone so full of excitement and happiness that Margaery can’t even find it in herself to be angry about the cold. Margaery puts on her big coat and follows Sansa as she exits her small car.
The cold hits her like a freight train, but she can’t run because she’s afraid that the driveway might have icy patches. Sansa laughs as the snow falls gently around them, and she takes Marg’s hand in hers as she tries to catch a snowflake on her tongue. Sansa looks so absurdly happy that Margaery decides that this might just be her greatest Christmas ever, even if Sansa’s family abhors her.
Sansa knocks on the oaken door and Margaery’s stomach suddenly fills with butterflies. Though she knows that Sansa most likely will not dump her if her family ends up hating her, Margaery would prefer if her family does not hate her. Margaery would like the Starks to like her.
The door swings open, and a girl with choppy black hair answers the door.
“You’re late,” she says, her lips quirking into a smile.
“Sorry,” Sansa says, with a hint of sarcasm, “Traffic was hectic.” Traffic was not in fact hectic, which was surprising. Margaery suspected that at least one stretch of highway from Mississippi to Montana would have heavy traffic on the night before Christmas Eve, but she suspected wrong. The roads were almost eerily empty. Arya cracks a large smile at that, and Sansa leans in for a hug that Arya quickly reciprocates. Margaery’s shivers start to become violent as the two break their hug.
“This is a lovely reunion,” Margaery says, her teeth chattering all the way, “but I’m from the Deep South. It’s cold out here.” Arya laughs as she breaks their hug and opens the door for them.
“I guess you won’t be helping me with the luggage?” Sansa asks with laughter as they enter the house.
Sansa’s parents’ house smells of pine needles and cookies and Margaery already feels at home as she steps into the entry way. She’s sure she’ll feel even better when she (finally) warms up. Margaery hears someone bounding down the stairs.
“Mom, dad!” the young, auburn-haired boy shouts, “Sansa and her girlfriend are here!” Sansa, of course, blushes in response. Margaery, though, is used to this sort of thing, after having Loras tell her parents about almost every girlfriend that she’s ever had before she had a chance to tell them herself. Sansa, regaining her composure, grabs her younger brother and pulls him into a hug.
“I’ve missed you, Rickon,” she says.
“Sansa,” he says in exasperation, trying to escape Sansa’s “bear-hug” grasp, “The KND Christmas special is on!! I don’t want to miss it.” Sansa visibly rolls her eyes, but releases her brother, allowing him to run into the living room and (hopefully) get to the television quickly enough not to miss any of his show. Margaery hears even more footsteps as Sansa’s parents start to descend the steps. Catelyn Stark looks like Margaery suspects Sansa will one day look with her gorgeous face, long auburn hair, and a wise, loving smile on her face as she spots her daughter.
“Sansa,” her mother says, and Sansa smiles widely. She embraces her daughter tightly, and Sansa clutches onto her like a barnacle.
Her father follows quietly behind. Ned Stark seems to be a man of few words, just as Sansa has said. He wraps his arms around the both of them. They eventually break the hug, and Catelyn looks over to Margaery.
“You must be Margaery,” Catelyn Stark says, and then she glares lightly at her daughter, “We actually haven’t heard much about you.”
“Alright,” Sansa says, “I think that we’ve made my girlfriend feel sufficiently awkward. I’m going to go bring our luggage in.” Sansa’s parents laugh as she shuffles out of the house towards her car.
“We have heard a bit about you,” Ned tells her.
Margaery “charming” Tyrell is surprisingly stumped about what to say.
“Good things, I hope,” she settles on, which a charming, disarming smile.
“Mainly,” he says, which a twinkle of humor in his eyes. Margaery decides that she might like Sansa’s father. Sansa stumbles through the door with her arms stuffed with bags and suitcases, and Marg almost feels guilty about making Sansa carry it from outside all alone.
“You’re helping me get it upstairs,” Sansa declares, and Marg feels significantly less guilty as she picks up a suitcase and a bag to head up the stairs.
Sansa’s old room has sickeningly pink walls that her girlfriend assures her she had painted when she was six and never got around to repainting, and they drop their bags on the ground near the queen sized bed. The comforter is a brighter shade of pink (which is far less sickening).
"Come on," Sansa says, "I want to show you something."
The entire room next to Sansa's completely coated in Stark family photos, and in each one every family member is in a Christmas sweater with their first initial on it.
“We take a family photo every year,” Sansa explains.
“Who knits all the sweaters?” Margaery asks, because she can’t imagine how much time it must take to knit scarves for all six Stark kids, their parents, and their two uncles and aunt. She wonders if whoever does it just knits and knits for the entire year.
“My dad,” Sansa says with a fond look on her face.
“It seems like my entire life is documented in this room,” she says with a nostalgic look on her face.
“My mom calls it our giant scrapbook,” and it has such fondness in her tone that Margaery almost feels like she knows her parents, though they haven’t even really spoken.
“We should go back down,” Margaery mentions, because eventually she will have to start making a good impression on these people. She might as well start now. Sansa smiles, and they exit the bright, happy room, as full of nostalgia as any room could be.
Then, they make their way back down the stairs. One might think that Margaery would never have developed such an aversion for stairs, considering all the time that she spent at her grandmother’s mansion, but that might actually be the reason why she did.
They gather in the living room, Sansa telling stories from college as her younger siblings try to tell her all about how their lives are going. Arya is ready to finally leave the house. Bran has been preparing for a big piano competition and he’s sure that he’s going to do well, and Rickon doesn’t ever want to go back to school. Inevitably, the conversation eventually switches to Margaery herself.
“I’m studying political science,” she says.
“I want to get into campaign management after college,” she admits, and Sansa smiles at her.
“We actually met in my government class,” She tells them, “Marg was my TA.”
“That sounds like a bad romantic comedy,” Arya laughs and Margaery smiles.
“I assure you,” she says, “we’re living a good romantic comedy.” And then there are peals of laughter as the talk degenerates into increasingly unrelated topics as it gets later and later. Sansa is the first to declare that she is tired and ready to go to bed, and of course Margaery can’t let her go to bed alone, so they start making for her bedroom.
“Rickon,” Catelyn says, “it’s time to go to bed.”
“Mother!” he says, “I’m twelve! Twelve year olds don’t have bedtimes.”
“They do if they don’t want to be in trouble for falling asleep at mass tomorrow,” she says, and Sansa and Margaery giggle together as they finally walk out of reach of their conversation.
They curl up together in bed, and Sansa tells her about all the things she plans to have them do over break. They’re grand and large, and Margaery can’t help but get swept up in them as they fall asleep.