Margaery was not, as a rule, a willful child. When Willas rode off to Lannisport, Garlan and Loras had begged and pleaded to be allowed to join the party, whining until Grandmother declared she could not tell them from hunting hounds and threatened to send them to the kennels. Margaery, though, had kept her peace (except for a few yips and barks at Loras when none of the adults were near). She wanted, as much as her brothers did, to go to the tourney, to see the glittering lances in the sun and pick out sigils from each fluttering banner. But she knew without asking that her parents felt her, at six, much too young for such things. So instead she bent her head to her sewing, determined that if she could not go herself to watch her brother's first tourney, at least her favor would accompany him.

When she had finished, even she had to admit that the rose was lopsided, more windblown wildflower than tended product of Highgarden's courtyards. She would not let Garlan or Loras see it, and almost held it back from Willas. Only at the last moment, when he came to the nursery to let her admire his armor in all its gilded trim and rich enamel, did she find the courage to present it to him. She held out the scrap of green silk shyly, and he stripped off one gauntlet to run bare fingers across the uneven stitches.

"A lovely favor from a lovely lady," he told her solemnly, and went down on one clanking knee to kiss her hand. "I surely cannot fail with this around my arm."

When he left, she watched from the ramparts. Garlan had sulked and Loras, ever-enterprising, had tried to sneak off after the party on his pony, but Margaery was content to know that while she remained behind, her favor was with Willas. He had told her, after all: with it, he could not fail. With that knowledge, it was easy to watch, easy to wait.

But he had been back six days now, and Margaery had not been allowed to see him. That was intolerable. Worse, no one would tell her why. Her father's usually florid skin was pale, her mother tight-lipped. Her grandmother was nowhere to be seen. Whispers filled the air around her but went silent as soon as she entered the room.

"They say he was poisoned," said Loras, always the more industrious about eavesdropping. "They say he was bit by a snake. They say he's lost a leg, both legs! They say Garlan will be the next Lord of the Reach." His tone wavered between a small boy's delight in gore and a younger brother's tears. He kept the tears off his face, but did not pull away when Margaery wrapped him in a hug, and bent his head so she could stroke his hair. If there was a sniffle or two shielded by his curls, well, they both pretended they had not heard.

"None of that is true," she told her brother. "None of that. Or Mother would have told us."

But silently, she was not so sure. Alerie looked so tired, now, and Margaery thought her hair was going grayer by the hour. So when she marked the same servant going to and from the kitchens, carrying a tray, three days running, she followed her. Loras was better at sneaking, but Margaery was very good at looking innocent. She smiled at two passing page-boys and a scullery maid, and stopped to examine two tapestries as though she did not know them as well as her own stitches, and when the servant stepped out of a seldom-used room with an empty tray in hand, Margaery was poised to slip in after her.

The chamber had windows on two walls, overlooking the gardens. The sashes were up, but even the scent of roses wafting in could not quite hide the odor of sickness. Margaery could not make herself look at the foot of the bed, but stared at her brother's face. He looked tired, older. His eyes were closed. But it was definitely Willas.

His eyes fluttered open, and his brow creased. "Lady sister?"

"Willas!" she squeaked, and surged forward.

His hand came up and stopped her when she would have flung herself bodily onto the bed. It shook slightly, fingers trembling, but it was warm on hers. She grasped it tightly. Now that his arm was loosed from the bedclothes, she could see her favor was tied just above his elbow, though half the stitches had come undone and there was an ugly stain that mottled one dangling end of the ribbon.

"They said you were dying," she babbled, "they said you'd lost your legs."

"I feel better by the day," he assured her, and he kept his voice strong enough that she could almost ignore his unfocused eyes. "And as to my legs, well, they're still there. You can see them yourself."

Margaery let her gaze wander down the bed. He was covered, of course, in a blanket, but beneath it she could see two reassuringly leg-shaped lumps.

"No one would tell me anything," she said. "Not me or Loras or Garlan. And we've been waiting for weeks." She knew she was exaggerating—nine days was not weeks—but it felt that way. Anyway, it had been weeks since the raven had come with news of the tourney, and though she had not noticed it at the time—she had been too busy, with Loras, plotting a new angle of attack on the castle's store of pastries—she thought her parents' tension might have begun then.

"Well. Soon enough, I'll be out of this bed. And I'll tell you everything." His eyes drifted shut, and his voice trailed away. "I'll tell you . . ."

"That's enough of that," said a voice from behind Margaery, so soft she almost didn't recognize her grandmother. Margaery hadn't heard her come in; then again, she realized, she hadn't shut the door behind her. "Let the lad sleep, and come with me."

Meekly, Margaery followed.

Outside, in the hallway, Grandmother's voice sharpened to its usual pitch. "What did you think you were doing, child?"

"No one would tell us anything," Margaery repeated, channeling, for a moment, Garlan's sulkiness. "No one would tell us anything, and I couldn't find you, and I was scared."

"I," said Grandmother, "have been tending the lad, night and day."

"It's because of my favor, isn't it," Margaery said. "It's because I didn't stitch it straight. I'll learn better, I promise, I promise. I swear to the Maiden." Her voice slid up to a whine, and she could feel her heart pounding.

Grandmother put a hand on each of her shoulders and shook her once, sharply. "What are you talking about, child? No, don't answer that. It's because of that damnable viper and his twice-damned Maester. But your brother will survive."

"Oh." Margaery took a long, deep breath. "They said Garlan would be Lord of the Reach."

Grandmother gave her a sharp look. "Who said that?"

Margaery blinked. "I don't know. They did." Loras hadn't said whose conversation he had eavesdropped on.

"If you want to help your brother, child, find the answer to that question. Find out who means to challenge his place. That will matter more than all your stitching."

"Really?" Margaery asked.

Grandmother's snort of irritation was so familiar as to be almost comforting. "Yes, really. Now, go away. I have bandages to change." Grandmother turned and was through the door before Margaery could blink, leaving her standing alone in the hall.

Standing idly was always suspicious. She turned, without quite thinking about it, to blindly study another tapestry. This one showed bees, round and fat and gold, buzzing between flowers. Bees, flitting here and there, carrying pollen back to their hive. . .

I can do that, thought Margaery. I can bring answers for Willas. I can listen for him, if he can't—until he can get out of bed. She nodded decisively. If she told Loras what she'd learned today, he'd be eager to share in turn the secrets of his listening holes.

She spared one last glance for the tapestry before beginning the walk back to more populated castle halls. But, Maiden be my witness, I'll work on my stitching, too.

It couldn't hurt. And if Garlan or Loras ever rode to tourney, she swore, they would do so adorned with the most beautiful rose the realm had ever seen.