#in spring

The very very local children

(as in they gotta be living in my aperment complex to get into my aperment complex, that local)

Actually came by doing trick and treating. Well that was adoreble. Never exprainced it from the "being adult side" but! Cute. I had no candy ready though, so i gave them money instead

“Alright, princess.” He gathers her in his arms, hoists her up high. “One last time. Uncle Loras is getting old.”

“Uncle Loras is getting lazy.” Margaery quips from the shade, and Sansa has to fight down a smile. “As if you could ever say no to her.”

“You’re right.” Loras walks toward them, Catelyn sat astride his shoulders. “She’s as demanding as you were growing up.”

“Impossible. I was an angel.”

“Oh, really?” Loras lowers himself to his knees, and Catelyn tumbles into Sansa’s outstretched arms with a squeal of delight. “Sansa, did my sister ever tell you of the time she browbeat the Master-At-Arms into calling her ser?”

“Loras…” A dangerous light enters Margaery’s eyes.

“How old were you, six? Seven?” Loras stretches out, undeterred, and pops a piece of cheese into his mouth. It is a late spring day, the air sweetened by the fragrance of hundreds of flowers in bloom. Three years in Highgarden, and Sansa is still adjusting. In the North, spring and summer were always a short thing. A brief respite. A parenthesis of warmth within a universe of snow.

“I was seven.” Margaery answers, resigned. “And I didn’t browbeat anybody.”

“You insisted the entire castle call you Ser Margaery for well over a week.” Loras counters, grinning. “And pestered poor Ser Guyard until he promised he’d teach you to joust.”

“Which he never did, for the record.”

“She was so jealous.” Loras says, leaning close to Sansa and pitching his voice low. “Father organized a tourney for her birthday, and Margaery was affronted they did not allow her to compete.”

“You are so making that up.” Margaery jabs a finger into his chest. She’s smiling, though, and Sansa is reminded of her own brothers, her own sister. She lowers her gaze to the blanket they spread out between them and pretends to be engrossed in a loose thread. Sadness washes over her, not as bitter as it used to. Not so numbing that it settles like ice in the pit of her stomach.

She’s healing, finally.

The Neighbours inspecting the new carpet.

Frozen in Spring, 2019