Chapter Text
It was common knowledge that during winter, roses did not bloom in Winterfell.
Most still referred to Sansa as The Queen of the North even after she had sworn vows of loyalty to Daenerys, Margaery also referred to her as that when in her bed, her Queen, her Sansa.
Sansa believes that Margaery must miss High Garden and King's Landing, but she doesn't show it to anyone other than herself, she understands why, letting others know of her weaknesses would only be useful in some situations and that wasn't one. Of them, the only time Sansa saw her cry without having a purpose for it, was when after her first month there the news of Loras' death arrived, this time there was no strategy, just the pure sadness of losing her brother, Sansa had more experience with that feeling than she wanted. The night she stayed in her room hugging her until she stopped crying, the next morning was when their lips touched for the first time.
She sits next to her during meetings with the council, gives her advice (no one could accuse a Tyrell of not knowing about strategy), and after the meetings are over Maragery is the life of the banquet, laughing and dancing with the lords of the smaller northern houses while Sansa watches her (no one could accuse a Tyrell of not knowing how to throw a party either).
At night Margaery says she loves her and when Sansa kisses her she can feel a smile forming on her lips, and in the morning standing in front of the window looking out at the snow with the morning light reflecting on her face she still looks as if she were a Queen still, with the beauty and confidence that no war could take away, when Margaery notices her watching her, she smiles and goes to her bed again and says that there is time for them to be together one more time before the servants wake up and she have to go to her quarters.
There are no roses that bloom in Winterfell during winter, at least none other than Sansa's.