Chapter Text
It’s half past five when Sansa and Margaery pull into the driveway of Sansa’s childhood home. Technically, they were supposed to have been there for four thirty, but Margaery had kind of... distracted Sansa for twenty minutes, and then Sansa had had to fix her hair and makeup and shower again, shouting curses at Margaery all the while, and then they had accidentally left the kosher lemon cake Sansa had had to scour three grocery stores for at home, and then they had needed gas. All in all, not a great start to the evening.
Sansa pushes open the door of the car, breathless, and clutches the cake to her chest.
“Oh, God, we’re so late,” Sansa says, jogging up the driveway. Margaery, who has longer legs, keeps pace with her at a brisk walk.
“I’m sure it’s fine. It doesn’t start until sundown, right?”
“Yeah, three stars in the sky, but we’re missing all the pleasantries and helping my mum cook and I think my Zaida’s here and he probably won’t make it to next year and you’ve never done this before...”
Margaery grips Sansa by the wrists. Sansa stops jogging and turns to face her.
“Sansa, calm down. It’s going to be great, okay? And don’t worry about me. We get to drink four glasses of wine each. This is like, my ideal holiday.” Sansa laughs and lays her head on Margaery’s shoulder.
Margaery holds Sansa’s free hand in both of hers and presses a kiss to Sansa’s forehead, then to her lips. Sansa kisses back, softly at first, but pretty soon she’s running her hand through Margaery’s hair and pulling her closer.
“Hey!” a voice interrupts them. “You two!” Arya is standing in the doorway in a too small apron that Sansa suspects was hers once, pointing a ladle accusingly. “Stop making out with your girlfriend, Sansa, and help me make this stupid soup.”
Sansa laughs and smiles contritely. “Sorry. I’ll go now.” She squeezes Margaery’s hand one last time and disappears through the front door.
“And you,” says Arya, “would it kill you to get a room?”
“Nice to see you too, Arya,” she says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Arya grumbles, but she’s smiling.
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“Zaida, Bubba,” Arya says, pushing through the masses of Starks and Tullys and plus ones, “this is Sansa’s girlfriend, Margaery Tyrell.”
Margaery holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Arya’s grandfather, who Sansa’s mentioned once or twice, shakes her hand. He has a firm sort of grip. As a child of Mace Tyrell, Margaery can appreciate a good handshake.
“Rickard Stark,” he says. “Nice to meet you.” He has a very Ned sort of look in his eyes, Margaery decides. Quiet in a wise sort of way. He’s old, but Margaery thinks he would’ve been handsome once. He has a thick accent as well, something Eastern European, Polish or Ukrainian, maybe. She smiles at him.
“Tyrell doesn’t sound like a very Jewish name,” says Sansa’s grandmother.
“It’s not,” Margaery admits. “We’re Catholic. Well, more secular than anything.”
“Hm,” says the grandmother, coldly, and Margaery feels the smile melt off her face.
“Don’t be such a Yente, Lyarra,” says Rickard. “She seems like a perfectly nice girl.”
“Sansa likes her a lot,” Arya adds. They stand there awkwardly for a minute. Margaery coughs.
“Alright,” says Arya, “speaking of Sansa, let’s go see how she is.” Margaery is all too happy to oblige.
“Sorry about that,” says Arya, once they’re out of earshot. “She told Sansa and me to bring home nice Jewish boys when we were kids and well, Sansa brought home you. I don’t think she’s forgiven her.”
“It’s fine,” says Margaery sadly.
“Come off it,” says Arya, “she’s old and she’ll be dead soon. For some incomprehensible reason, you really love Sansa. You can still marry my sister and have too many annoying peppy children and dogs and cats and shit. So what if it makes her spin in her grave? You’re completely out of Sansa’s league, anyway, so she should take what she can get.”
“Thanks.” Arya might lack some of Sansa’s finesse in dealing with emotions and people, but she certainly tries. “I really appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome,” says Arya, waving frantically at a tall, lanky, long-haired boy that Margaery’s seen in pictures. “Hey! Jon! Over here!”
“Hey,” says Jon. “Margaery Tyrell, right?”
“Yeah,” says Margaery. “That’s me.”
“I knew your brother in high school. Loras, right? He and I played hockey together. He was good. How’s he doing?”
“He’s doing pretty well. He and his boyfriend Renly moved to New York a couple months ago.”
“Yeah, they’ve--” Someone covers her eyes from behind her before she can finish her sentence.
“Guess who,” says Sansa, an octave deeper than her regular voice, giggling. Margaery can hear Jon laughing.
“You two are disgusting,” says Arya.
Sansa lowers her hands and wraps her arms around Margaery’s waist, resting her head on Margaery’s shoulder. “Did you miss me?”
“So much,” says Margaery, grinning. “I was about to throw myself from a cliff out of loneliness.”
“Good thing we prevented that,” says Sansa.
“I’m going to throw up,” says Arya.
Margaery turns and kisses Sansa.
Arya retches.
“I love you,” says Margaery, leaning back to kiss Sansa again.