PG-15. 2,400 words. Margaery goes skinny dipping. Sansa tries not to look, but she can’t keep her eyes away, nor stifle the song in her heart.
Sansa is breathless by the time she catches up with the Lady Margaery. She is sure she looks a sight; hair ripped out of its careful curls by the wind, dress mud-stained, boots absolutely ghastly. Her companion, if anything, is a bit worse off. That dress will undoubtedly have to be discarded, spots of mud dot her skin like freckles, and there are leaves dusting her hair like a crown. Still, Margaery manages to be devastatingly pretty, with her red cheeks and bouncing curls and her fine, dirt-smudged profile. The Rose of Highgarden collapses in a whirl of skirts on the riverbank, laughter bubbling from her throat, and pulls Sansa down with her.
“Oh, but I feel like a child again,” she gasps, hooking an arm into one of Sansa’s, and her merriment is so infectious. “I don’t think I’ve run so fast in years!”