"He's demanding what?" Lady Olenna Tyrell demanded as she sat, back ramrod straight against her gilded caquetoire, the golden armrests engraved with the roses of Highgarden and its tall back support embalmed with the Tyrell sigil.
The messenger boy kept his eyes down, hands nervously twisting his cap as he prayed to the gods that Lady Tyrell would allow him leave with his manhood intact. "Please, Lady Tyrell - "
"No!" the matriarch declared, voice sharp and frigid as slab of ice, "I won't hear any more! This boy, this king, believes he can condemn my sweet Margaery to the cells because she lost a child? Does the idiot know that she suffers more than he? Does he know that his very own Hand is the queen's brother?" Lady Olenna demanded as the boy chewed on his lip. Her eyes narrowed. "You boy - yes, lift your head up!" she cried irritably, "don't act like a fool when you know there is no need. Tell me, when is this trail to be set?"
"H-his grace has not yet declared a date yet, my lady. I…I venture, from what Lord Willas has declared, there might be no trial." he stuttered out, his pale cheeks blazing pink from embarrassment and fear as he ground his knees together to keep from wetting himself. Dear gods, when was an old woman so utterly terrifying? "L-lady Cersei has advised his grace not to hold trial but his grace is adamant as he believes this miscarriage could have left her majesty barren."
"Barren!" Lady Olenna snorted with a roll of her eyes, "how can she be barren? She's a Tyrell! As fertile as the land where Highgarden rests and as pliable as the ripe fruit of spring! How could that royal king ever think anything else? Our Margaery is a gift unto King's Landing and he thinks her barren? My Margaery…if she is barren then he is a foil to Lothario." her voice pitched upward in an almost ironic fit of laughter, causing the young messenger boy to cringe at its screeching frequency. "Absurd." she muttered, "utterly absurd…" raising her head, she looked at the shaking boy - weak, Lady Olenna thought with pitied disgust, weak like a Lannister.
"Tell me now, boy," Olenna pondered, eyes sharp as a mountain lion, "what does my other grandson say to this? What of Loras? Surely there has been opposition from the Kingsguard over this."
The boy pursed his lips, nervously shaking his head. "No, my lady. There has been nothing said. Ser Jaime Lannister has kept the Kingsguard quiet and nothing has been able to spread across court. Lord Varys himself knows not of the plan regarding the queen - "
"If Varys doesn't know then you won't know," Olenna drawled out finally, clasping her hands on her lap. "Get out of here, child," she snapped, watching with faint amusement as the frail boy practically bolted out of her private reception hall.
Leaning back into her chair, the aged Lady of Tyrell sighed, closing her eyes in a rare fit of worry. She could feel her blood boiling in rage at the sheer gall of the Lannister king and at the same time, at Margaery's own foolishness. How could she miscarry the child? Was she accompanying the king on a hunt? Was she more than a little adventurous in the bedroom? Olenna had made sure Margaery attracted no enemies at court and the harshest emotion that would regard the delicate rose was one of uncaring apathy, nothing remotely entangled with hatred or revenge. After all, they were the Tyrell's! They'd aided King's Landing in war and gave more to the blasted capital than any other house in Westeros…if it was a trail by combat, Margaery should have no problem selecting a champion and when that champion won, Olenna herself would see to it that the boy-king was stabbed to death in his own bed if need be.
But then again, the Queen of Thorns mused, there was the whole matter of the king's illegitimate son, Charlemagne Lannister. Sansa Stark's golden haired little boy seemed to be the king's pride and joy; nightly visits to the bastard prince, jousts in his honor, and an allowance almost as large as the one allocated to the queen, all given to that false heir whom the king seemed to adore.
Truthfully, Olenna acknowledged, there was really no need to kill the king when one could find a lamb of an infant lying in his crib…barbaric? Absolutely. Necessary? Most certainly.
"Luthor!" Olenna suddenly snapped, "tell Captain Arnold to prepare the ships! And set course to King's Landing!"
Sansa awoke to Shae's trembling hands, thin fingers attempting to yank her upward into a sitting position. Through bleary eyes, the redhead could make out the weak morning sunlight as well as the look of panic on the usually cool and collected foreign girl's face. "Shae?" Sansa inquired, voice rough from sleep as she attempted to rub her eyes. "What are you - "
"Sh! We must not make a sound!" Shae warned, voice low as she kneeled closer to where Sansa slept. "The guards - listen to the guards! Didn't you hear them this morning?"
"What? No - Shae, in the name of the Seven what are you talking about?"
Her handmaiden, however, merely looked about the room, as if afraid an intruder would suddenly appear. "Did you not hear, my lady? Her majesty, the queen, she has been arrested and put into the cells below to wait for trial!"
Sansa's eyes widened, the bright Tully blue growing dark with fright. "Trial?" she inquired, voice hushed, "what has she committed against the king? Against the crown?"
Shae's face was solemn. "She failed to bring a son into the king's hands. Her miscarriage was the only evidence they needed to convict her, my lady. Lord Willas, from what I have heard this morning, is outraged by the treatment of his sister and Lady Olenna is traveling down from Highgarden as we speak. Ser Loras has been kept under strict oath by Ser Jaime to not speak a word of this to anyone and even Lady Cersei dares not to breathe this secret out into the public."
"Then how do you know?" Sansa demanded, clutching her covers closer to her body as she narrowed her eyes. How would Shae ever know? How could she possibly even configure this strange theory! Rubbing a hand along her sore breast as she waited for Shae to collect herself, Sansa wondered if all women who gave birth had breasts that ached, and Charlemagne -
"Charlemagne!" Sansa suddenly cried, she hadn't seen her baby boy since last night! What if Margaery had hidden spies around the castle? What if there was a knife sticking from her baby boy's stomach right now?
Leaping out of bed, Sansa near sprinted across the room whilst a befuddled Shae attempted to call her back. Shoving open the double doors that led to the nursery, Sansa rushed right towards the gilded crib. "Aome…oh, thank gods!" the flame of Winterfell cried in relief upon seeing her twins; Aome soundly asleep whilst Charlemagne was looking at her with wide, Tully blue eyes. "Oh, my precious boy!" Sansa breathed, gathering her son up from his crib as she pressed a gentle kiss to his unruly blonde curls. Charlemagne let out a delighted gurgle, snuggling closer to his mother's breast.
"My lady?" Shae inquired, making her way to the nursery, her dark eyes wide with surprise. "Are you quite all right? Do you need - "
"They're safe for now, Shae," Sansa breathed out again, "we need to have them in Joffrey's rooms from now on. Quickly, pick up Aome," the Northerner ordered while Shae stood still with shock.
"My lady, I do not understand…?"
Momentarily placing Charlemagne down, Sansa wrapped Aome in her pink blankets before handing the bundle to a dutiful Shae. "We must make haste - no time to spare, do you understand? If Queen Margaery is to be kept in the cells, then the Tyrell's will be seeking revenge. They know Charlemagne and Aome are Joffrey's heirs and that he is their father; what better way to find retribution then to kill a king's son? His blood?" the words flowed from Sansa's lips as if she were discussing the weather. Despite her outward show of swift action and calm nonchalance, Sansa was shaken by how disconnected her voice was, by how simple the notion of revenge had become.
Joffrey had imprisoned Margaery and now the stakes were being pilfered and launched back at the crown; Sansa had no doubt Lady Olenna would be more than willing to try and off a little princeling or princess before her time in the capital was done and that was something Sansa would not allow to happen.
Lifting up Charlemagne, Sansa motioned for Shae to follow her. "This is how Joffrey enters into my bedchambers," she explained, her voice a half whisper as she pulled open a discreetly crafted door from across the twins' crib. "The guards here have been instructed to protect the children but I can't have anything else left in the hands of chance," she continued, running into the long cavern, her pace so frantic on the uneven floor that Shae urged her to slow down. "We must hurry!" Sansa insisted, "the sooner we arrive in Joffrey's chambers, the safer I will feel."
"Since when did you take to calling his grace by his given name?" Shae asked curiously, shifting Aome's weight as she ran behind Sansa.
"A…habit now," Sansa replied distractedly, making a sharp turn that left Shae with whiplash before a dark green door appeared in sight. Balancing Charlemagne on one arm, Sansa shoved open the door to reveal a once royal room that now looked as if a hurricane had swept through it. "Gods..." Sansa breathed, terror suddenly surging through her vein as she looked about the wrecked room, from the torn paintings to Joffrey's prized hunting trophies, once proudly mounted on the walls, were now strew through with arrows.
Dazed, Sansa held open her other arm as Shae quickly placed Aome there, dark eyes cautious.
"Shae, you must leave." Sansa instructed, knowing full well now that if there was anything Joffrey hated more than being contradicted, it was allowing someone - someone he held a modicum of care for - seeing him in a state of weakness.
Shae's brows furrowed. "My lady, I cannot - "
"Just go!" Sansa near hissed as she walked towards the bed, the only recognizable item in the bedroom, before placing down her children, gently nestling them near the pillows before covering their eyes with a scrap of silk.
Turning towards her defiant handmaiden, Sansa's face was as pale as the moon as she twisted her silk chemise. "This is no time to be brave, Shae," Sansa warned, "I…I shouldn't be here, not now, I know he won't want me to see him like this but I have to endure what I must for my children. You don't, Shae," the intense sky blue of Sansa's eyes were now focused on the foreign handmaiden and former whore. "Please, just go."
"Who's in there?"
Sansa frantically motioned her hands for Shae to leave as Joffrey's footsteps became clearer and with a final worried glance back at her mistress, Shae ran back through the green door and disappeared from sight right as a half drunken Joffrey appeared, his usually pristine golden hair mussed and face ashen.
"Sansa!" Joffrey cried, his voice brokering no harsh inflection or cruelty as he strode over, grasping her into his arms, face buried in her golden red hair. "The blasted fucking maid…she went to fetch you days ago but the bloody idiot couldn't seem to find you or some other stupid story...I haven't let anybody in here since, did you know that? They're all unworthy and...not you." he muttered into her shoulder, his hands clutching to her sides so tightly that Sansa may have as well worn a corset. Pulling back, Joffrey's green eyes appeared genuinely happy to see her; they scanned over her pale face as his forefinger trailed down her jaw to her collarbones, before dancing down her back. "I - "
"Your grace," Sansa finally stammered, summoning the love she bore for her children to the forefront of her absent courage, hoping against hope that Joffrey would listen. "Please, if you would hear this plea on behalf of our son…" she trailed off, her eyes turning towards a squirming Charlemagne whilst Aome, bless her, quietly played with the edge of her blanket, already half asleep.
Joffrey, for the first time, seemed to register the two babes in the room and just like that, his face darkened. "Why did you bring them here?" he demanded, voice razor sharp.
It filled Sansa with a rising panic that she did her best to quell.
"Perhaps this is foolish of me, but I feared for their safety. I feared someone would try to harm them while Queen Margaery is imprisoned - "
"Why would they?" Joffrey demanded accusingly, shoving her away from him, countenance changing as quickly as the swing of a sword. "She lost my son!" he fumed, "she lost the heir to the Seven Kingdoms and for that act of neglect, of murder - it is enough to sentence her to death!" his pale face was now flushed with what could only be described as a violent disposition, his jaw clenched so tightly that it appeared unmovable. "She should be hanged for the treason she committed and I should have Willas Tyrell's head on a pike before his sister's blood even runs cold!"
Sansa took a step back, for she knew her king's passion was a terrible and cruel thing; prone to fits of hostile unrest and desperate imbalance that no queen, advisor, or mage could reign in from the edge. Her blue eyes watched as Joffrey paced the floor, every few seconds glancing from the mess of the room to the twins lying on the bed before his gaze finally found its way to Sansa's trembling form.
A flash of displeasure shot through his eyes before it was masked with an icy curiosity. Sansa felt herself tremble, her heartbeat racing and blood rushing so loudly through her ears that she could scarcely hear at all - she knew that look all too well.
"Please, my king, I fear for the Tyrell's retaliation against the imprisonment of their daughter. I fear that they could very well kill Charlemagne and Aome to spite us or the crown or - " suddenly Sansa's feet left the ground and with a rush of wind, she felt her back colliding with the wall of Joffrey's bedroom, his hands pressed tightly against her arms as he molded her form upon the levee. "My king - "
"Shut up." Joffrey ordered, grinding his hips against Sansa's. Without another word, he pressed his lips against hers, forcing her mouth to open for his tongue as his hands ravaged her body. Slipping his left hand inside the thin chemise that was Sansa's nightgown, he found her bare breast and with the other, he produced a dagger from the clutch of his belt. "Do you think me weak, Lady Sansa?" Joffrey demanded as he brought his knife to the firm set of Sansa's jaw, his voice as melodic and soothing as velvet but the disorder of his eyes resembling the very contents of his ruined bedchamber.
The lady of the North said nothing.
"Do you think it was wrong for me to feel any sort of emotion for my soon to be dead queen's lost child? Do you think me weak for having such a tryst?" he whispered, the tone of his voice hard and almost brittle, like a rubber band stretched close to its breaking point. "Do you think it was wrong for me to care about a son that I had long hoped for and then for me to learn that his blasted mother lost him? Do you think me weak for mourning? Do you think me weak for that Lady Sansa?" his voice rose and suddenly all Sansa could see were floating pieces of pink chiffon, the pieces of cloth puffing into the dawning light before gently floating down to the floor.
The cool tip of the knife caused her to shiver and Joffre's frantic movements were barely acknowledged by the beauty of Northern Westeros, for all she could concede was the fact that Joffrey cared. He cared that his son was dead. He felt hurt and betrayed that Margaery had lost the child; that his rose of the Reach had somehow…abandoned him? Abandoned the child? That she had left them before her time…just like King Robert Baratheon, always so full of wine and women that he could not spare a glance at his neglected and troubled firstborn.
Suddenly a feeling of sympathy seized Sansa as Joffrey dropped the dagger, kicking it aside in favor of pulling his own pants down and for once, Sansa felt no fear. She felt no panic or shame or worry.
She felt strangely free as Joffrey took her there, stripped of her clothing as he shoved his already hard cock inside of her, moving at such a rapid pace that Sansa could barely keep up. All she could think of was the feel of Joffrey's hands, how tightly they gripped her hips and how he seemed to be forcing himself to breath, as if living was a duty he was now committed to.
Joffrey could register nothing as he pulsed within Sansa, thoughts of a million colors and ripples surging to and fro within his mind that he felt almost crippled by the intensity. He hated this - he hated it all.
He hated that Sansa had come into his bedroom only to see him in such a pitiful state. He hated that it was the traitor's daughter - the daughter of a man whose head he'd cut off - that had born him a son. He hated that he cared about his son's mother almost as much as he hated the fact that he felt some stirring of grief when Margaery lost their boy. He hated that strife and blood had brought him no pleasure and he hated, for the first time, the sight of red stains on Margaery's nightclothes and that the scent of death seemed to cling unrelentingly to his very soul as he stared into the dead eyes of his legitimate heir.
He loathed the gods for taking away a child who would one day sit on the Iron Throne.
He hated Margaery for not being worthy to carry his son into his world.
"Joff!" Sansa's moan broke through his revere, her heaving chest, her tight pussy throbbing around his cock. "Joff…I'm, I'm - oh!" her breathy voice pitched into the most delightful scream as she wrapped her thighs around him and came.
Joffrey felt the rush of blood coursing through his veins, he felt a stirring that had been absent from him since Margaery's failure and for the first time, he felt revitalized by the touch of another being. The heat of the moment, Sansa's roaming hands, the weight of her body against his own…the bruises of amethyst on her skin, the strips of red silk across her arms, the rubies of passion that adorned her neck…with a sudden cry, Joffrey found himself enveloped in a mist and he could see nothing but violet and red and the pearliest sheen of white.
"Sansa…" he murmured as he emptied within his red-haired maiden, holding her for a beat longer before setting her down. Breaking away, he looked at her for a moment and his hand reached out to caress her jaw, to feel her neck, the blood pumping underneath that pale skin of hers.
"Your grace," Sansa sighed, leaning into his touch and filling his soul with a strange sense of wonderment and pride. A fulfillment that he found strangely appealing as he looked at the weary beauty before him. He would remember this rendezvous better than any other because on this occasion, Sansa had welcomed the madness.
"We will keep Charlemagne in my adjoining chambers," he consented, his hand trailing down to her chest as his forefinger and thumb found the pert nipple of her breast. "And you will no longer sleep in your own room, Sansa. You will be kept here from now on as well. In my bed."
Sansa's eyes snapped open and her mouth opened to protest.
"This is by decree of the king," Joffrey insisted, pinching her nipple so that a sharp hiss left Sansa's pretty strawberry mouth. "This is by order of the lord protector, of your ruler and lord and sovereign." he recited, "now," he pressed his body against Sansa's again, "get dressed. It's time to hold court, my lady."
In the dizziness that unexplainable pleasure offered, Sansa could only hazily wonder if Joffrey's consent extended to her little Aome as well, but the time for questions could not pass. Before she could even blink, Sansa saw Joffrey disappear with Charlemagne in his arms and she found Aome placed against her own breast before their bodies were submerged in a pool of warm, lavender scented water.
Maids buzzed around them like worker bees as Aome cooed in her arms.
"Shush now, my precious," Sansa cautioned gently, "shush now. All will be righted, your father won't allow anything to happen to you, dearest. Not a thing."
Deep within the bowels of the Red Keep, Queen Margaery of House Tyrell sat with her back straight and her eyes fixated on the loose stone before her. As she was a prisoner of royal caliber, the Black Cells were no place for her but rather, the Common Prison as it was called, was where she resided. These humble little chambers were created decades ago by some Targaryen king that Margaery could not recall, to house all his political prisoners in relative comfort until their death sentenced was carried out. She herself had been allowed to keep three handmaidens with her in the stone tomb that served as her temporary cage and her brother had managed to furnish the crypt with her original feather bed and boudoir.
Margaery had smiled at him very prettily and thanked Willas for his labor. "When this is all over, we shall have a firm discussion on the state of these political prisons," Margaery joked lightly as Willas's troubled face pressed a weight against her heart. "Don't you think we ought to tend to - "
"Margaery, he'll have you executed." Willas warned, his voice had been so very raw - as if he'd spent the day screaming questions at a deaf man and then waiting for answers to come.
She gave him a serene smile. "I am his queen," she explained calmly, "he won't have me killed simply because of this, dear Willas. I am his beloved queen. He won't have me executed."
Willas had winced, Margaery remembered that so very clearly. It was a rare thing indeed to make the stoic Willas Tyrell lose his composure and Margaery couldn't help but feel a small modicum of pleasure in seeing her usually cool older brother squirm. The way his stony face had crumpled, brows knitting together and lips downturned even more so than usual. The way his nose scrunched as if an invisible hand were pinching it made Margaery smile, even now - moments before her trail - as she waited for her dues to come.
"Joffrey is an unstable madman," Willas warned, clasping his baby sister's hand in his own as said woman gave him another sweet smile. "Don't you understand what will happen? I may be Hand, our grandmother may be Olenna Tyrell, and we may control armies that outnumber the royal family's but we must never forget who it is that sits upon the Iron Throne." Willas's voice was grave, "we must never forget those who would be more than willing to kill, murder, maim, and destroy in order to achieve their means. Littlefinger wouldn't hesitate to poison my cup and I doubt Varys would weep for my death. They would not extend to you anymore courtesy than they would to me," his eyes were alight with a strange flame that Margaery felt intrigued by - it was so very atypical for Willas to display such open passion - and she found it suited him more than detached apathy. "You can trust only your blood here in King's Landing, my dear little sister," Willas murmured, "we must never underestimate the lions of Lannister." he'd warned severely before departing, leaving her alone in that little cell.
Giggling to herself now, Margaery smoothed out her blue skirts and adjusted the crown atop her head. "I shan't underestimate the lions, my brother," she whispered softly to herself, "for they've already underestimated me."
My dear lady mother,
I find myself very well in Dorne and I wish so very much you could come and visit me here in the land of fire eaters and fish merchants and mountains made of sand. I wish you could come and see all the beautiful bells of gold that are strapped to women's ankles and when they dance, for they sound like falling stars from the sky. I find Prince Oberyn the most engaging of men and his daughters the most beautiful of women - all carmel skinned and dark haired and wide eyed. They know so many wondrous stories and they tell me that one day I will be a lady of those tales, I will be Princess of Dorne as well as the Seven Kingdoms.
Trystane is such a kind soul and a very good swordsman, taking after his uncle. We are to picnic tomorrow at a crest somewhere very close to a mountain and then we shall go swimming and cliff diving! Never before could I have imagined such adventure would be handed to me so willingly but, mother, I am enthralled by Dorne and I find myself falling in love with my betrothed. I hope we wed very soon and may you come to our wedding alongside Uncle Tyrion and Aunt Sansa. How very strange it is to call Sansa my aunt! I always imagined her my sister-in-law but nevertheless, I am happy for her and their two blessed children. May Charlemagne and little Aome live a life of peace in King's Landing where wars will be avoided and disputes settled over contracts and words.
Is Tommen well? I hope he is getting along fine without me but I suspect he is enjoying learning Latin and Greek, just as all boys of prominence must endure but something I hope Tommen enjoys. He writes to me often of Ser Pounce and his kittens and I am very glad that Ser Pounce has managed to outlive the age of eight months. I enclose a little present for Tommen of a gilded ship that he may find charming and a silk ball that if squeezed produces a flurry of feathers for Ser Pounce to chase. Trystane has allowed me my own household and I command my own forge, blacksmith, and so many others that I feel like a true queen when I am with him. Bless Tommen, and I hope you are well mother.
I wish all the best to King Joffrey and Queen Margaery and may the seven gods above bless their child with long life and happiness.
All my love,
Myrcella
Cersei stared at the letter for a moment before folding it back and throwing the piece of parchment into the fire. Sweet, innocent Myrcella, the former queen regent mused, still unaware that her brother's bride is to be sentenced for treason and that the Tyrell's are in upheaval.
Where did she go wrong? Cersei leaned back against the chaise lounge, clutching at her goblet of wine. What happened to her son, her dear Joffrey who used to be at her skirts, pondering the very questions man himself dared not to wonder. When did Joffrey stop being her little boy? When did she lose her grasp over him? Did he not realize that by placing Margaery under arrest was also turning the Tyrell's against them? Did Joffrey not see that the Reach was now their greatest ally and that without them, any war, any rebellion even, could be fatal?
Was he so blinded by his obsession with the Stark girl that he could not see that his very actions were tearing the realm apart? Could he not understand that passion and desire and want were the very sins that brought the misfortune that was Robert's Rebellion and then the War of the Five Kings? Did her sweet Joffrey know that love had very little to do with politics and that the best one could hope for was a marriage in which said spouses held no resentment for each other? That a marriage between her and Robert was as good as a strife ridden couplet could bear?
Closing her eyes, Cersei prayed - for the first time in many years - to the gods which she had all but abandoned. Please, Cersei called, please let my son see reason. Let him not execute the Tyrell girl in a flourish of anticipation as he did with Eddard Stark. Let Joffrey act like a king for once in his life, please. Cersei begged, please let him act like a king.
A gentle rapping at her door brought Cersei from her revere. "Enter," Cersei called, her voice faint and her focus distracted as Lancel entered into her chambers.
"My lady," her cousin acknowledged her with a slight bow before hesitating, "my lady, it is time for the trial."
Cersei turned to face him, a look of slight surprise upon her countenance. "Already?" she inquired. Surely this can't be…a trial so soon?
Lancel nodded. "Yes. Both his grace and her majesty wish for this to end as soon as it can. As such, Queen Margaery has begged for an earlier audience with the king and he has agreed to it. Now, you must hurry my lady for the king will hold court in only a few moments."
"Yes…yes, of course," Cersei nodded, placing down her goblet and following Lancel to the throne room. "Tell me, cousin, who is in attendance?"
"Just about everyone, my lady," Lancel replied, "Lords Varys, Baelish, Willas; the Grand Maester, anyone with aristocratic birth. Ser Jaime and the Kingsguard, your brother and his wife - "
"So the Stark girl will be there?" Cersei inquired, her voice sharp as Lancel gave a slight nod. "How wonderful. Invite the lynchpin of destruction to the trial of the queen." she commented dryly as she entered into the throne room. There Joffrey sat, looking magnificent in his robes of gold and burgundy with the Baratheon crown atop his head. Advisors fanned out to his left and right like an extended fan while two other chairs had been placed directly on either side of the throne. In one sat the lord Hand, Willas, and in the other, Lady Sansa Lannister.
Cersei's face darkened as she made her way to Joffrey's right side, standing beside her younger brother.
"How lovely to see you, dear sister," Tyrion smirked, "tell me, is this view less panoramic than the one you usually have? When you used to sit by the king's left hand?"
"You will cease your mouth from moving, little brother, or I shall have it sewn shut myself." Cersei gritted out as Tyrion barely suppressed a rather loud chuckle.
"Now, now, no need for violence," he chided blithely, "we must keep our tempers in check, must we not? After all, the flush of your cheeks may very well contrast with how bright your gown is. You do realize that once you become certain age, dear sister, the bright gold of Lannister may no longer suit you? Perhaps a deep maroon?" Tyrion offered before he found Cersei's foot stepping heavily over his.
"Shut up." she hissed.
Tyrion blanched as he looked upon his dirtied boot. "Have you put on a bit of weight, my lady? Too much of the good stuff now that King Robert's gone?" he inquired, a wide grin on his scarred face, "now, I seem to recall you have such fond favor for those corseted dresses, so may I suggest - "
"Will you cease your rambling!" Cersei finally burst out, causing more than a few eyes to turn towards them as the former queen regent glared down at her smiling younger brother. "You think you're so clever, don't you?" she scoffed, "with your words and your tricks and your ploys. Had your pretty little bride somehow not wormed her way into Joffrey's affections, I would have you hung, drawn, and quartered before another breath left your lips."
Tyrion shrugged. "Mayhaps. But you and I must agree on one thing, sister o'gold - that would leave the Lady Sansa without a husband and the king is more than willing to practice a few outdated Targaryen traditions." Before Cersei could retort, the grand double doors swung open and in walked Margaery Tyrell, her head held high and her steps measured with all the grace embedded in a woman of noble birth.
"Margaery of House Baratheon and Tyrell, you are here to stand trial for the murder of the the king's son and heir on this day before the court of law and justice. What have you to say?" Petyr Baelish called out, a smirk on his lips as Willas's hands gripped the armrests of his chair.
The rose of Tyrell gave a serene nod. "A half-truth," she declared, "for I did indeed have the king's son and heir inside my womb but it was by no means a fault of mine when the babe left the world two moons too soon."
Joffrey leaned closer to the edge of his seat, his brows furrowing as he looked upon his wife. His right forefinger tapping at a sword by his armrest, a look of contemplation shining from his usually volatile green eyes.
"What have you to say against the callous actions you performed while carrying the king's child? Arriving at the stables to ride the horses, dancing restlessly with your companions, gardening in the unbearable heat of the sun - all careless acts performed by a woman who had no wish to ensure the safety of the Seven Kingdom's future king." Baelish continued, his oily voice slithering throughout the room as a cobra would stalk its prey. "Do you deny these allegations?"
Margaery was undeterred as she met the eyes of Petyr Baelish and then the eyes of her brother before she gave a slight nod. A gasp filled the hall and murmurings soon became a frenzy as screams ranging from Kinslayer to child murderer to unworthy harlot peppering the air of the room. "Please, my lords!" Margaery called out, her voice as commanding as any king's, "let me explain these actions to you and allow these outrageous falsehoods be tamed to a gentle rivulet. I did indeed visit the stables but it was to tend to the horses, not ride them; I danced with only my lord sovereign at the annual balls hosted by his majesty. I merely plucked a few roses from the gardens in the Red Keep to place in my rooms so that the fragrance of Highgarden may never leave me, and - "
"Enough!" Joffrey cut in, raising his hand as he stood. His voice was aggravated, as if he had been listening to the false complaints of another all day. "Queen Margaery of House Tyrell, I offer you but one bargain from this trial as you have been a faithful wife to me and a loyal servant of the crown. Accept a divorce on grounds of legal charge and wed my uncle, Ser Jaime Lannister, or be beheaded on grounds of treason and murder of the crown prince. That," the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms addressed, "is my offer. Choose your fate, Margaery of House Tyrell, for there is no going back."
Margaery's face displayed no outward signs of emotion but her blazing dark blue eyes were filled with a hatred that Joffrey seemed to revel in. Clenching her fists together, Margaery took a step forward but then hesitated, eyes searching the room for someone.
"I disagree," a voice suddenly boomed right as Margaery's eyes found Loras.
Stepping out of the shadows was Lady Olenna Tyrell, her riding cloak still wrapped around her shoulders and her eyes as cold as winter's last frost. "I am sure we can come to an agreement, your majesty. Just you and I."
A/N: The longest chapter I've written thus far BUT, everything has finally congealed together!
The Queen of Thrones is one of my favorite all time characters and I honestly can't decide whether or not to have her manipulate Joffrey into freeing Margaery or having her succumb to a deal with him...what do you all think?
State your opinion and leave a review!