A/N: This fic is, as they say, "inspired by true events", but the inspiration is rather tangential. Plaudits go to His Holiness GRRM, Sanrio, "Ramble Girl", and my lovely beta for all they've done. You're the best.


When Margaery was young, she had shared a little toy knight twith Loras. The little knight came with his own little horse, and it was perfect for staging little adventures, because the toy knight was plain enough to be anyone; Garth Greenhand or Symeon Star-Eyes earning glory for Loras, Jonquil or Galladon saving maidens for Margaery. Sometimes Margaery liked to replace the knight with a girl doll and pretend she was Nymeria, conquering all of Dorne. But only sometimes. Once, Willas had walked in—well, limped in, by that point—on her and her Nymeria blazing a path of destruction through some of the rebellious southlanders, and he had laughed and laughed when Margaery explained the situation. After that, Margaery had always checked to make sure there was no one around.

The little toy knight was dear to both of them, but they started to outgrow it. In fact, they were old enough to have entirely outgrown it when their father happened to chance upon it and proposed getting rid of the doll. Neither of them wanted to see it thrown away, so they both hastily insisted it be kept.

Then, seeing the other sibling's reaction to its potential demise, possession of the doll suddenly became of the utmost importance. Margaery and Loras started trying to outdo each other in their praise for the doll. That occurred not so much because either of them wanted it but because each sibling wanted to make sure the other didn't lose it. In the end, the two of them had talked to each other and quietly dropped the issue, and the doll was forgotten once more.

Forgotten, that is, until a similar situation surfaced once more, in the form of a bright pink cloak.

Loras and Margaery had always been close. All the Tyrell siblings were close, of course; Willas was clever and could always be counted on to help when Margaery wanted to know more about her lessons, and Garlan was brave and strong. But Loras, Loras was a constant in Margaery's life. They were each other's foils, playmates, and secret-keepers.

When Loras rushed up to her one day when he was 11 and spoke in stumbling but enthusiastic tones that "me and Gareth," one of his favorite sparring partners, "we, we, we were talking to each other, and smiling, and then he, and then we, we...", Margaery had supplied, helpfully, the word "kissed" to finish out the sentence. It was really no surprise. She had seen how he looked at the other boys, and, moreso, how he failed to look at the girls around him.

So, as Loras started exploring the things that his gorgeous brown curls could get the boys around him to do, he started sharing details with Margaery. Obliquely, to be sure, and nothing that Margaery found too distasteful, but details nonetheless. (Margaery tried to reply in kind, but Loras had always been far braver than her. Loras just wanted an audience, in any case.) When Loras moved to Storms' End, the practice had continued by correspondence, the two of them using code-words and insinuations to get their points across.

It was really no surprise that Loras had fallen for the man he squired for. Though Loras had his dalliances, he was ultimately drawn to powerful men. Not to their power in and of itself, but to the thought that these were the men who were his equals, who deserved his love. Much to Loras's surprise, and to Margaery's, it had turned out that Renly had felt in kind.

After Loras and Margaery's joyful reunion, they had settled back into their old ways. One day, not too long ago, Loras had come to her to whine. He told her he had bought an obscenely bright pink garment, a cloak of a sorts, with strange leggings and an unrecognizable house sigil on it, intending it as a joke to lighten Renly's mood. Instead, the man had seemed to like the thing, treasuring it and demanding it be brought out, supposedly on behalf of Loras. And now Loras was miserable.

And Renly? Margaery had stumbled on him one evening, on one of the nights she had hoped he would finally fulfill his marital duties, brooding over the pink cloak. She feigned shock. "My husband, what is that thing?"

He had stood up straight, his face the very picture of mortification. "My lady wife! How, how good to see you!"

"My lord husband," she said, giving him a chaste kiss on the cheek. Today was a day to try at demure sweetness. "That was not an answer to my question. What is that, that garment?"

"Simply a... cloak. Meant for... religious purposes. It helps me in my prayers," Renly said, obviously flustered.

Margaery suppressed a chuckle. 'Prayers' indeed. "Have you become a Summer Islander, my lord husband? Giving up on the Iron Throne already?"

"No, my lady. Not ever," he said lightly. "A gift from a dear friend. I fear it holds little interest to me for my own sake. I keep it because of the sentiments of the one who gave me it."

"Oh," said Margaery, her eyes widening. "A rival for my husband's affections? How fast my heart beats!" She put a hand tenderly to his cheek. "Convince me my feminine sentiments are misguided!"

"You do not need convincing," said Renly, quietly taking her hand in his and putting it back by her side. "My love for you is absolute and boundless, more than mine for any other woman." he had a small frown on his face, and his gaze was directed at a point far away. "But I cannot part with this cloak. I wish I could, but, I... cannot."

So that was why Margaery kept coming back to the little toy knight. They both clearly ended up hating the pink cloak, but neither of them could part from it for fear of the reaction of the other. Renly needed Loras, Loras needed Renly, and Margaery needed the two of them. They were her boys, her two pink cloak boys, and she had to make sure they stayed happy. And this piece of clothing was standing in the way.

Tonight, though, that would change. She had made sure Renly was out of the tent, in some sort of strategy meeting with some lords in the depths of the night. She strode into his tent, briskly making her way to the chests that contained Renly's clothing, holding a bundle of clothes close to herself. She hoped he had kept the pink cloak in the chest she had seen open when Renly had been sighing over the garment. She opened the chest, and, in a stroke of luck, found it quickly, near the top of the chest. Taking it out, she folded it into a ball and wrapped it inside an old, torn dress of hers, making it into a bundle. Then she strewed some of Renly clothes from the opened chest on the ground, making sure to lay a nice, lacy slip of hers next to the bed. There. Even if smarter heads would realize he was in a meeting, perhaps she could count on the gossip of washerwomen to ensure there were some positive rumors swirling around camp for a change.

Margaery walked to the tent where some of Renly's servants waited. When she swooped in, the assembled servants—a skeleton crew, really—stood up, bowing and curtseying and uttering a respectful "Your Grace". Margaery had to hand it to Renly; where smallfolk were concerned, he treated them with respect, and in turn his servants performed dutifully and well. Their respect translated over to her upon their marriage.

"Baela," she said, addressing herself to the stout washerwoman sitting next to the door. "Renly's clothes are far overdue for a wash. If you could, make sure the clothes are washed before the next day?"

"Yes, Your Grace," said Baela, "Right away." She curtsied and scurried off. That was another good thing about the servants trained in service to Lord Renly Baratheon: they knew to not ask too many questions and to obey quickly.

Margaery bid the other servants good night, then walked off on a quest of her own. Continuing to hold her bundle, she scanned the surroundings for a dying cookfire, abandoned by its igniters. She noticed one a short way off. Walking up over to it—while responding respectfully to the murmured respects paid to her by Renly's men—she quickly and unceremoniously threw her bundle into the fire. She stood there until she could be sure her dress, and the contemptible pink cloak, had caught fire. Then she left.

Margaery had taken to supping with her boys. They were on their last course, some sort of lemoncake. She enjoyed their company, of course—Renly's japes, Loras's affection—but of late they had proven quite useful. After a talking-to by Margaery, Loras had begun trying to work with her to convince her husband to go about his husbandly duties. Subtle digs about his masculinity, or Loras's passing on of ("obviously false, of course!") gossip from the camp hadn't yet proved effective. Today, however, Loras had attempted bringing up how much he had always wanted a nephew, especially because Garlan hadn't yet provided him with one. To this, Renly had lapsed into an uncharacteristic and mildly alarming silence.

Into this silence, Margaery decided to interject some hope. "Renly, my husband, I noticed your clothes were back from the washerwoman. You must so appreciate having clean clothes."

"What?" said Renly. "Oh, yes. Clean clothes. Very nice."

"Well," Margaery said, "When the washerwoman brought them back, I happened to notice that, well, your pink cloak..." She trailed off a bit, as if asking him to say 'Which pink cloak?'

"Yes?" said Renly. The brief moment of animatedness that had come with her sudden topic change disappeared. "That cloak is very special to me."

"Very special," echoed Loras woodenly, not hiding the fact he knew exactly what pink cloak she was talking about.

Margaery nodded as if she didn't notice their distinct lack of enthusiasm. "Right. Your pink cloak. Well, I'm terribly sorry to say it, but... I think your washerwoman somehow misplaced it."

"Misplaced it?" said Renly, suddenly sitting straighter in his chair. Loras was grinning slightly, crumbs of lemoncake around his mouth. The grin disappeared quickly before Renly noticed.

"Yes, my husband," said Margaery. "Sad to say, it is gone."

"Gone?" exlcaimed Renly. "Oh dear. How horrible."

"A great shame," said Loras cheerfully.

"Shall we punish the washerwoman who lost that garment? It seemed quite important to you and your prayers, and I wouldn't want—"

"Gods, no!" said Renly. "Don't even suggest such a thing!"

"No, of course not!" said Loras, entirely abandoning the pretense that Margaery didn't know what the pink cloak was for.

"Are you sure? I know your feelings about the treatment of servants, but I think that—" said Margaery.

"Leniency in all matters!" said Renly.

"Silly! Foolish! Stupid!" insisted Loras.

"... and absurd beyond belief that we could punish some poor washerwoman for this act!" said Renly.

Margaery tried to look taken aback by their vehemence, or, at the very least, to keep from laughing. "Alright, then," she said, smiling in a self-satisfied manner. "If that is all, my lord husband, I believe I have eaten my fill."

"You are excused, then," said Renly, smiling at her. He does have a gorgeous smile, said Margaery. Shame my brother has all the luck.

Margaery stood up and curtseyed slightly, then kissed Renly and Loras on their cheeks and bid them good night. As she walked out of her husband's tent and back to her own, she overhead Renly asking Loras, quietly, "And just what have you been discussing with your sweet sister about..." before the tent flap closed.