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“You’re wearing entirely too many clothes,” Margaery murmured, hands pulling at Sansa’s dress, hoisting the material over her hips. Sansa helps Margaery pull it off of her, the cool air kissing her skin sweetly. Margaery’s own dress was next, and then their small-clothes soon after.
Sansa had come to live for stolen moments like these, the two of them pressed together, fingers and tongues and bodies entwined. Here in this room just the two of them existed; there was no bloody war, no damned Queen suspicious of their every move. She wasn’t a traitors daughter and Margaery wasn’t a soon to be queen.
Here, in this short time they could simply be them and nothing else needed to matter.
Tomorrow, she would worry about the rest. But now, all she wanted was Margaery.