Margaery was definitely not the kind of woman that let her feelings get the best of her. She considered herself to have a good heart, but having seen the things she had during her short marriage to Renly and since arriving to King's Landing, her instinct of self-preservation was stronger than ever. She knew that, in order to survive, sacrifices should be made and feelings should be put aside; having her head cool and her goals clear was essential.
However, there was something about the Starks that stirred something deep inside her, that for moments, made her doubt her principles and desires.
She had felt it first when Lady Catelyn Stark had arrived at Renly's camp. Margaery was not a stranger to strong women; her lady grandmother Olenna had more guts than any lord of Highgarden, and more wits than her own father, so the fact that lady Catelyn had dared to call them summer knights (as much as they were) and had mocked her brother for playing wars should have not surprised her. It had surprised her though, especially knowing her aunt Lynesse's story. Catelyn Stark had been born a Southron woman, and the fact that she had not only survived the cold and inhospitable North but had also managed to adapt enough to be sent as an emissary in times of war was impressive.
"You must have missed it, my lady," Margaery had said to her in that sweet and polite way she was taught. It had been during Renly's feast, the only opportunity she'd had to talk to the woman alone. "The South, I mean."
Catelyn had outlined a melancholic smile. "I thought I did," she had confessed, almost as if she was having the realisation right there. "But the more I think about it, the more I believe my body as much as my heart belong in the North now."
Margaery had been taken aback, to say the least. In those few sentences, the lady Catelyn had showed sadness for the first time since arriving to the camp. She must have truly loved her deceased husband, she had thought, watching the woman's eyes become absent, probably reminiscing happier and simpler times.
"The warmth is nice all the same," lady Catelyn had added later, composing herself.
After that, they had exchanged no more words.
That brief conversation had left an impression on Margaery. She was a realist, and she did what it was needed to be done. If she had to invite her own brother into bed so her husband could put a child in her, then she would do it. If she had to pretend to enjoy massacring animals and torturing people to become Queen, then so be it. Marriage was not something she romanticised. Few were the marriages that worked, even fewer those that shared pure, romantic love. She had heard stories of those, but had not actually seen any; infatuation, lust, some kind of connection or attraction, yes. Love, true love? Not so much. More often than not, Margaery believed love did not exist in that way, not in any other form that was not family love.
Catelyn Stark evidently loved her children, that was clear: she was doing the impossible for them, including following her son to war and making alliances with people she didn't trust in order to rescue her daughters. But she had loved her husband too, truly loved him, even if she was not meant to originally marry him -even if he was dead now. She still loved him.
The former Lady of Winterfell had made Margaery doubt that skeptical view of love. However, that had been it, only doubts. Renly had died shortly after that, and circumstances had made her forget about lady Catelyn and her situation. After all, her father was so keen on making her Queen that he had not wasted any time to form new alliances and arrange a new betrothal for her. She needed to look after her heartbroken brother and prepare herself for a new challenge.
When Margaery had arrived to King's Landing with empty and overly acted words of love and admiration for King Joffrey and had first seen Sansa Stark, she was reminded of lady Catelyn again. The girl took after her, with the same high-cheekbones, blue eyes and thick auburn hair the Tullys were known for. She had felt happy at the sight of the girl physically healthy: it set a good reference on her soon-to-be-husband, the fact that he had not harmed her. However, it did not take Margaery long to realise Sansa was actually a little frightened and broken bird under that blind devotion she faked towards the King.
Once again, Margaery found herself admiring a Stark. Sansa was younger than she was and still obviously a hopeless dreamer, but she had managed to appear harmless in the eyes of none other than Cersei Lannister. That certainly required cunning and cold blood.
Margaery could not even begin to imagine the suffering the girl had had to go through, but she got a clear idea when Sansa told her some of the things Joffrey had done to her, once she was absolutely certain Margaery could be trusted and would not tell anyone about how Sansa's faith still remained in her brother Robb.
It was true that Margaery had first become close to Sansa with a purpose; that purpose being to gather information about her betrothed. But soon enough, the young woman started to care for the Northern girl. She was sweet, and kind, and in spite of everything that had happened to her, still remained a classy lady. They had similiar interests, so it was easy for them to bond over embroidery and music, even if she knew Sansa was constantly worried about her brother, always trying to find out news about the battles he was fighting. Margaery tried to distract her with different activities, to keep her as far from Joffrey as possible, even if it meant she had to be the one spending time with him instead. Sansa seemed to be grateful and to genuinely like her, so she quickly began to trust her and tell her stories about her siblings and what it was like to grow up in a place like Winterfell.
"I was a stupid girl," Sansa said once, in a particular bad day where she had heard her brother had been shot by an arrow. They were not certain if he was still alive, but the Lannisters were already spreading that he was not, to discourage more uprisings and future allies. "I was a stupid girl with stupid dreams… I used to hate it all -Winterfell, the austerity, the cold; even my sister Arya for being so wild… Now, I'd give anything to go back."
Margaery usually remained neutral at comments of hers such as this, conscious of how even the walls had ears in the Red Keep. This time, however, Sansa looked so unhappy that, after making sure no one was around to hear, Margaery squeezed her hand and gave her a stern look.
"You must be strong, Sansa," she told her, determinedly. "Your mother and your brother are doing everything they can to get you back. You have to trust them."
"Joffrey will never let me go!" the girl cried, desperatedly. "Robb has ser Jaime and Joffrey still refuses to exchange him for me! If Cersei has not convinced him yet, nothing will!"
"Dearest Sansa," Margaery said, still calm and smiling. "Not everything is diplomacy, I'm afraid. Your brother is called The Young Wolf, even King Joffrey fears him, and now that he's allied with Stannis, he's got even more chances at winning this war."
Sansa relaxed a bit after Margaery's words, and her sobs eventually stopped. They stayed in silence afterwards, as if the conversation never happened, both apparently concentrated on their needlework.
"What will happen to you?" Sansa whispered after a while, giving her a look full of concern. "Robb won't hurt you when I tell him how good of a friend you have been to me, but Stannis..." she stopped, and furrowed her brows. "He's cruel, and you will be Queen soon. What if he treats you the way the Lannisters treated Elia Martell?"
"Do not stress yourself over me, little bird," Margaery said, her smile cheerful and nonchalant. "My family always finds a way out."
Margaery's fake confidence seemed to convince Sansa, and the girl smiled at her, more at peace, before continuing with her work. When her eyes were not longer on her, Margaery let her expression fall and the fear invade her. Her mind went over possible scenarios and, after a particular bloody one that made her hands shake enough to pinch herself with her needle, she snapped out of it and frowned, decidedly.
She was not going to be the next Elia Martell. She refused.
"Grandmother, we need to think of something," Margaery said as soon as they were alone in the old woman's chambers. She even made her ladies wait outside so she could speak to her sincerely and without any interruptions; that was how unsettled the situation had her feeling.
"It is always good to be one step ahead of your enemies, my dear, I agree," lady Olenna said, raising an eyebrow ever-so-slightly. "But may I ask why are you suddenly so eager to plot?"
"The Young Wolf and Stannis Baratheon have joined forces," the girl replied, rather impatiently. She knew well enough her grandmother was aware of what was happening, much more aware than she was. "They keep advancing towards King's Landing and the Lannisters are either entrenched here without the people's support or being butchered at the battlefield."
"Robb Stark got shot by an arrow," the old woman said, as calm as ever. "He could be dead for all we know. That is what your future husband and his mother keep telling the world."
There was an almost imperceptible smile dancing on her wrinkled lips, as if she was mocking Cersei's techniques. Margaery felt an uneasy sensation in the pit of her stomach.
"He is not dead. He cannot be."
Olenna's eyebrow went higher, and this time her surprise was noticeable.
"Are you certain or are you hoping?"
"We must think of something, Grandmother." Margaery ignored the question, mainly because she did not know the answer herself. "What if Robb Stark and Stannis Baratheon take King's Landing?"
"They will kill the Lannisters and harm those who have brought death to their families. You have done no such thing, my dear."
"The wedding is only a moon away! If Stannis doesn't kill me for being the widow of his traitor brother, he will for being the usurper's wife. Once again."
There was a silence between them in which Margaery's ragged breath was the only sound. That was what made her notice how worked up she actually was, and she mentally kicked herself. Her grandmother had taught her that nothing should ever destabilize her, that she should stay calm and cold in every situation. It was a bad thing she was forgetting those lessons in front of none other than the Queen of Thorns.
"Forgive me," the girl continued, her mask of solemnity back, same as her perfect posture, with her back straight and her hands carefully resting on her skirts. "I am a Tyrell of Highgarden, and I should not be afraid."
"No, my sweetling," lady Olenna said, her smile sharp and sincere for the first time. "It's because you are a Tyrell of Highgarden that you are afraid. And it is a good thing that you are, for fear is what makes us react. I am glad you are reacting, child, and not playing the fool like your father is…" she shook her head in clear resignation. "Gods know we would be in an entirely different situation if he would have listened to me."
"So you believe it is possible for Stannis to take the throne?" Margaery asked, her heart racing again.
"With the North and the Riverlands by his side? Most definitely," the woman answered calmly. "Robb Stark is a boy, but a boy with an army and good leadership skills. He listens to his mother, and she is no naïve hag… As cold as Stannis is, he is a determined man, and somehow has convinced Renly's men the Lannisters are to blame for his murder. They will win."
"Then we need to think of something!" Margaery repeated, not as desperated as before, but anxious again. "I don't want to end like Elia Martell, Grandmother, I-"
"I would never, ever let that happen to you," lady Olenna interrupted her sharply. She reached for her granddaughter's hand and squeezed it tightly, giving her a dead serious look. "Elia Martell didn't have me as her grandmother."
Margaery felt like breathing for the first time since that conversation with Sansa. She trusted her grandmother more than anyone in the world.
"Do you already have a plan?" she asked quietly, feeling calm now.
"Oh yes," the old woman said. "And you are part of it, my little rose."