A/N: This is my fourth chapter, but let me know if the pacing needs to speed up or slow down. I hope I'm coming at this pacing fairly consistently, as we are going to handle the Tourney in a single chapter. Let's see how this goes.


MARGAERY IV

The roar of the crowd was deafening, even in the enclosed space, sometimes rising in pitch, or lowering in pitch, depending on the events occurring outside. The smell of Red Arbor wine and food wafted its way around the tournament, from the frankly ridiculous amount of consumption. The sigiled tents were in full display, with most Reacher houses, some Dornish houses, and a few minor Westerlands houses and Stormlands houses. The tourney at Highgarden was at its full swing, at the peak of the tournament, with the jousting lists and tilts dazzling the crowd.

All of this should have excited any child of seven namedays. As a matter of fact, Loras was outside with Gar right now, shouting and laughing in joy as dreams of becoming a tourney knight filled his heart, and I knew my entourage of cousins and future ladies-in-waiting - Desmera Redwyne, Megga and Elinor Tyrell, and Talla Tarly - were all giggling and cheering. All of that faded though, in comparison to my worry about one very specific jouster, despite all of my protests, pleas, and attempts at manipulation. My brother, who looked expectantly at me, as I proceeded to prattle my umpteenth worry at him.

"Willas, you remember what I told you, right? You have to-" I started.

"-check and recheck the stirrups on both sides to make sure that your foot is not stuck in it before every tilt, so that you can escape if something goes wrong, I know." Willas recited half-heartedly, finishing my sentence. "Really, with the way you're going on and on about this, I feel sorry for the poor sod who will have to marry you, little Rose, you're worse than grandmother is sometimes."

Mother fluttered around nervously, both in an attempt to see her son, and also, to escort her only daughter safely to avoid her doing the same thing alone.

"Oh Willas, are you sure about this? I know your father wants to get you started in the tiltyard early but you really don't have to, you know…" Mother fretted.

I made my lips quiver and wobble and positioned my eyes to look like I was tearing up, partially out of very real nervousness, but also because I knew he was very susceptible to that sort of thing. Willas made the mistake of looking at me, and then looked away as he saw what he assumed to be another sobbing fit. He sighed, and opened his arms for a hug, knowing what was about to happen next.

Even though my brother was maybe a head or two taller than me in a jouster's armor, I almost tackled him in my hug, feeling the steel and chainmail on his person. Willas looked at my quivering face, and my clear affection for him, and he softened.

"Marge, I know you're worried - Seven help me, I'm worried too - but I will be fine, you know that. I can't crown you Queen of Love and Beauty if you don't let me go now, you know that," Willas murmured reassuringly, in an attempt to comfort me.

Really, Willas, famous last words there. Of course, with adolescence (as my four-and-ten namedays brother would attempt to deny), came a bit of recklessness, but at least he tried his best to listen. Willas saw the look on my face, released me, and cleared his throat mock-grandly.

"Now, sweet sister," Willas spoke jovially, in a clear attempt to cheer me up. "Will you do me the great honor of wearing your favor during my joust, to bestow your beauty and luck upon me?"

I couldn't help but giggle at my brother. Really, with his silver tongue, he'll be the envy of Reach maidens everywhere. I looked expectantly at my mother, silently asking her to create the favor for me, given that I had no extra ribbons.

My mother pulled out a very small dagger from one of her sleeves. All Noble ladies in the South knew they needed an implement to protect themselves at all times, and I knew she would not let her seven name-days daughter near any kind of sharp tool.

Mother efficiently grasped onto the edges of my latest dress, made with a pretty green silk and embroidered with very original, you guessed it, golden roses, and efficiently cut a strip of fabric to hand to me. She put the dagger away, then went to Willas, whispering a few words of reassurance and love to him, and kissed his forehead.

Not to be outdone, I grabbed the fabric, kissed it showily, as was tradition (which extracted a small laugh from Willas), and proceeded to tie the fabric around his arm quickly and efficiently: secure, but not too tight. One promise I made sure to extract from him is that he would be wearing my favor; I didn't want to deal with any overambitious ladies grasping a claw into my brother as a ticket to being a future Lady of Highgarden, and also because I was a spoiled younger sister who got anything she wanted so long as she batted her eyelashes properly. Willas smiled as the last knot was secure, and he leaned down for me to kiss his cheek.

"Go show them, brother, that the chivalry of House Tyrell is Growing Strong," I said firmly, as he proceeded to walk outside with us, climbing atop his destrier. I don't know what kind of luck my poor brother had, going up against the Red Viper in near-the-first-round, but I shoved away that thought for now. "I know you can do this."

My mother looked overcome with emotion at our brief family moment, so I grabbed her hand, allowing her to escort me out to the family box, where Father, Gar, Loras, and Grandmother was. Staring at all of the destriers on horses, the knight tents, and so on, seemed like a particularly vibrant Renaissance festival, and a reminder that Westeros was really in a magic-infused medieval era. It would be a long way towards building a democracy, in the far, far future. After a few minutes of walking, we arrived at the spectator seats. Mother went on to sit with Father and kissed his bearded cheek affectionately, his face beaming up after seeing his beautiful lady wife, and I went to sit by Grandmother, and my little entourage, already bursting with excitement over the whole affair.

An entourage of ladies was an interesting thing for Southern ladies. Even at a young age, young maidens of the Reach were encouraged to position themselves for those placements, as practice for the future, as the bannerman of the Lord Paramount jockeyed for political capital within the reach. Desmera, Elinor, and Megga were all to be expected, they were direct relatives, and House Tyrell has always ensured that family kept each other's secrets with incentives as such.

Aunt Mina and her Lord Husband were in the stands with us, as well as Aunt Janna and Her Lord Husband. Talla Tarly was there to appease her father, the foremost general of the Reach, and a few other young noble ladies were there as well, the clear victors of the jockeying. Of course, I still had to keep my guard up around my ladies, since you never really knew who was listening, but they were all fairly decent friends; well, as friendly as little girls can be.

"Sorry I'm late, girls," I said, when I reentered the stands. "I wanted to see some of the knights, and my lady mother could NOT help but escort me, you see-", which caused all four of us to burst out into giggles.

"You missed a few of the jousts though." Elinor noted cheerily. "They were so interesting, they were like-"

Elinor attempted to gesture and describe a few of the jousts, with Megga and Desmera nodding emphatically along. I plastered a smile as I began tuning them out, anxious about the outcome of this joust. Evidently, grandmother had noticed, because she looked at us, and opened her mouth.

"...Bah, you see one joust, you see them all!" Grandmother interjected in exasperation, noticing my discomfort. "Really, if men spent the same amount of time fixing the realm as they did playing pretend at this silly little tourneys, the Realm would be far better off for it."

That broke me out of my stupor, causing me to giggle. Ah, the Queen of Thorns strikes again with her witty barbs.

"Look, there he is!" Loras shouted excitedly, for all of us to hear. "There's Willas! That's my brother!"

Loras was correct. My brother, holding my favor, waved and smiled at the audience as he commanded his horse to the Lord's box, where our family was sitting. His golden-brownish hair shone in the sunlight, and he looked to be the perfect picture of a dashing heir, waiting for his joust, for his queen of love and beauty, and life in his eyes, no doubt preparing to soak in the adulations of the crowd.

"Oh, he's so handsome!" Talla Tarly gushed quietly. "Mayhaps I could be the Jonquil to his Florian. We would be so happy together."

Okay, first of all, ew, that's my brother. Also, you are eight namedays old, to his four-and-ten, that's also weird, Talla, stop ogling my brother.

I looked at her suspiciously for a moment, before turning to the tilt; this demanded my full attention.

"Margaery, look, there's the Red Viper!" Megga crowed out enthusiastically. Oberyn approached the Lord's Box with a smug smirk on his face. Willas and Oberyn turned to one another, and then proceeded to command their horses to their end of the tiltyard. Willas, as promised, quickly checked his stirrups by pushing his feet out of the stirrup and putting his feet in, stopping when he was satisfied. Oh no. This was getting far too real for me. I couldn't bear to watch my brother get injured in real time. I prayed to the Mother, the Maiden, the Warrior, the Father, the Old Gods, anyone, that I would not have to watch my brother injure himself the same way as he was in canon or killed because of my intervention.

"Grandmother-" I said weakly, my anxiety overcoming me.

"Oh Margaery, settle down," Grandmother answered. "Willas will be fine."

Willas and Oberyn both put on their helms, preparing for the joust. The sound of betting filled the stands, as bookkeepers tried to profit off of the most significant joust in this tourney. Uncle Paxter cheerfully declared his bets for Willas, as Father puffed up at the confidence everyone in the family box. Father really was under the impression that Willas was the next Leo Longhorn, and was no doubt, lost in his fantasies about his son as a prodigy jouster.

By the Seven, this was really happening. Their men handed them their lance, and their shield, with Willas's shield depicting the famed golden rose of House Tyrell, and Oberyn's shield depicting the sun of House Martell. They put it on, and I saw my favor prominently appearing on his arm, near the lance. I leaned into my grandmother, so scared and worried I was. Olenna Tyrell didn't pull away, knowing that her granddaughter needed comfort in that moment, and I appreciated it.

A second.

Two.

Maybe a few. I dunno.

After what seemed like an infinite amount of time, yet before I knew it, the horns blared, signaling for the competitors to start. The world blurred out. The only thing I cared about in this moment was Willas.

They ran, and ran and ran, their lances outstretched.

A *CLANG* - as their jousting lances collided with the other's shield.

Both lances breaking, nobody falling.

To the other side, then.

They prepared themselves for the next bout, retrieving another lance.

A second beat.

Willas looked noticeably more confident, and Oberyn was smirking, clearly thinking of congratulating his young opponent after he lost.

The horns blared again.

They ran, their eyes focused on the shield.

On and on and on and on, and another *CLANG* as they collided into one another.

Oberyn had put more force into his spear, and it collided with Willas's shield in a way where it broke the shield.

My brother's horse, unable to balance his shifting weight, began to fall.

Falling, and falling and falling.

Willas fell, his foot moving out of the stirrup, and the horse fell aside from him, laying on the ground, before slowly rising up. A beat, and another beat. Then, Willas arose shakily, but seemingly fine, his leg and body safe. The horns blared as the announcements declared Oberyn as the winner of the joust.

Oberyn carefully watched his opponent and proceeded to dismount to help his competitor up and congratulate him on a job well done, but the look on Willas's face indicated something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

A gasp rose out of the crowd, as we saw the problem.

Willas's shaky hands weren't enough to steady him, as he fell onto the ground, holding onto his wrist as he screamed and screamed in pain. He was screaming, and crying, his wrist not bleeding, but his hand was twisted at a very unnatural angle, and his wrist clearly broken.

A hushed whisper fell over the ground, with not a single person daring to break the moment.

Oberyn rushed over in panic, and attempted to help him up, but with my brother (only four-and-ten, fourteen years old and screaming and crying like this), was unable to move, with his nerves on fire, and so Oberyn quickly detached Willas's of his armor and dropped it on the ground before carrying my brother bridal-style towards the infirmary in as quick of a gait as Oberyn could manage.

A piercing shriek broke the whisper, hitting the ears of the crowd with the sound of anguish and fear. God, it was annoying. Who would dare to shriek at a time like this? It was so loud and so filled with heartbreak that I couldn't bear to hear it any more, but I didn't know where it came from, or how to make it stop.

Loras approached me, enfolding me in a hug, and the shriek suddenly seemed a little more muffled, though it still assaulted my ears.

The "Twin Roses". The "Terrible Tyrell Two" (and I had laughed at that, even.) So many derivatives of the name they called us, despite our one year age difference. It was too easy for us to be confused for twins. But there, in that singular moment, in that single point of time, never in my life had I felt closer to my brother than this. My brave, strong Loras, a constant I wouldn't be able to part from. He held onto me tightly, tears landing on my shoulder and in my hair, and we held onto each other, not wanting to let go.

As blackness slowly approached my vision. I realized that the shrieking had come from me. I gratefully floated into the darkness, mercifully knowing no more.


Ending A/N: As much as Marge had a plan, Westeros had another one coming. You can prevent a leg injury, yes, but tourneys are dangerous things, and throwing fourteen year olds into life-threatening competitions, even more so. Hope you don't mind the twist!