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They whisper behind her back, her Northern lords, thinking themselves clever that they do so and assumes she is none the wiser. But Sansa did not survive King's Landing, survived Cersei and Littlefinger, and gained no experience in return. She is Queen now, and this rumor mongering these lords feel obliged to do are so petty she can only laugh in response.
And all because she chose Margaery as her Hand.
Margaery whose smile is warm one moment and wicked at the next.
Margaery who encourages her amity towards her people, to hear their petitions and to always show them she cares.
Margaery who reminds her to be the direwolf of her house - to protect those who are under her fiercely - but to also exude the rose of her own house: beautiful when admired yet there is always the possibility of being pricked by a thorn.
She is the shrewdest person Sansa has ever met. Why shouldn't she ask Margaery to work with her for the sake of her kingdom? And if she should share her bed with her Hand, Sansa does not give a wick at what her lords say, Lady Margaery will stay in her chambers.
She has denied herself of joy and pleasure for so long, what is this one thing she does for herself?
So after when she is crowned Queen in the North, and a modest feast thrown for everyone to enjoy, she retreats back to her chambers, the Lady Margaery close behind her.
"Are you happy, Your Grace?" Her voice sweet, and her palms warm even through the layers of her dress. (If Sansa is reminded of a conversation she had with Littlefinger ages ago, she does not let on. She buries the memory once more, and puts it where it belongs - in the pile of ashes where Petyr Baelish now rests.)
Sansa turns to be wrapped in Margaery's embrace, her nose resting on thick brown curls, and nods her head in response. "It's been quite a day," she whispers, less like a queen and more the young girl she once was.
"Was it everything you hoped it would be?" Hazel eyes stare back at Sansa, so open she can finish it like the books she used to favor before.
The Queen smiles warmly at her Hand, because although she wishes her family could've been with her on this day, she finds contentment in the arms of this noble lady she's only recently allowed herself to be affectionate. Sansa rests her arms around the older woman's waist, forehead to forehead until they are only a hair's breadth apart. "It'll do," she says into Margaery's slightly parted mouth.
Margaery tsks, before saying that it must be remedied. Before Sansa even asks what she'll do for her queen, Margaery captures her lips - softly but not without passion, moving as if in a dance. And when their tongues touch, not for the first time but feeling quite so every time they kiss, Sansa feels her toes curl and so she moves closer to her friend, lover, confidante, greedy to have more of this Reach lady's touch.
And should someone ask her later what was her fondest memory from her coronation, she might say being in the presence of her people.
But this, this is the memory that will keep her warm at night.