Author's Note: Hello again!
We officially broke the number milestones mentioned last chapter, so thank you all for your support! Just as a side note, I'm basing most, if not all, physical descriptions on the book versions of these characters (helped, in that regard, by the wiki of ice and fire. Check it out if you want a huge basin of lore!). Book Margaery Tyrell, for example, has brown eyes; Natalie Dormer, the actress who plays Margaery on the show, has blue. But my mind's eyes still see's miss Dormer when I envision Margaery, just like it sees Lena Headey for Cersei and Peter Dinkalge for Tyrion. So, even though my in text descriptions will be book canon, I still think of the same faces as you when I'm writing the scenes.
Not that you all really care about that haha, I just figured I'd say where I'm drawing descriptions from for any of you who might not have read the books. Feel free to envision whoever you want of course; if you want to imagine Jack Black as Myrcella, go for it.
Enough of my unimportant blabbering. As always, I hope you enjoy and review this update!
The Prince looked as if he were about to burst into a regal dance.
Not on a ballroom floor of course; she had only had limited interactions with the middle of the Baratheon brothers, but that had been enough to show her he probably hated dancing. Dancing was a social function, and while the steps were normally set in stone the expected flirtatious conversation was not. Damon the Daring may be just that, a daring warrior, but wit was not his strong suit.
Grandmother calls him a simpleton, but I don't believe that to be the case. Neither does Grandmother, not really.
While wit may not be Damon's strong suit, it was certainly Margaery's, and she had used it in her fortnight in the capitol to learn all she could. What rumors and opinions she hadn't uncovered her grandmother had, and they seemed to agree with one another. Damon wasn't stupid, but he wasn't the sort to dazzle with intelligence either. A good warrior, but not one to inspire the men he led. Deadly, but awkward.
It was an odd combination to be sure, though an accurate one. He had proven his awkwardness weeks ago in the streets of King's Landing, and he was proving his deadliness now.
The Prince of Dragonstone was crouching, blade poised and ready and shield raised. Three men were spread out in front of him, their own sparring swords and shields poised, looking for weaknesses. All three were Reachmen, coming to King's Landing alongside their future Queen. Damon seemed to only fight Reachmen; she hadn't needed rumors to learn that most men and boys who lived in the Red Keep avoided sparring with the Prince whenever possible, save for the man named Tyrek, who by accounts seemed to be the Prince's only friend. Even now, most others in the sparring yard had stopped their own training or mock duels to watch, the Lannister knight among them.
Eliot Rowan, youngest son of Lord Mathis and still a squire of seven and ten, moved first. Smally built and very quick, he darted towards the Prince's right, jabbing his sparring sword forward in a quick jab. His two compatriots—the Redwyne twins, who in fairness weren't much older than Eliot—tried to press the advantage of their numbers, moving in near perfect unison on the Prince's front and left.
Damon held that dancer's pose so long Margaery thought he meant to take the blows before he darted into action. He knocked away Eliot's blade so strongly it nearly knocked the sword from the squire's hand. At the same time he swung his shield, interrupting both of the Redwyne strikes before they could straighten out, catching them on his shield. With a shove he knocked both blades back, swinging his own blade in. Hobber, the Redwyne in the middle, had already been raising his shield to catch the blow he expected to come.
It didn't land where he thought it would, however; Damon' shifted the blow in midair to counter, quicker than Hobber could. His blade struck the side of the Redwyne's knee, bucking it and dropping his opponent. In one well-practiced move Damon landed a lighter blow on Hobber's shoulder—if it had been a hard blow when at war, the Redwyne would be red from blood—and then swung overhand towards Horas almost as soon as it landed. The second Redwyne gave a couple steps of ground, Damon turning to face him and forcing him back several more with a flurry of strikes.
But Eliot returned to the fray, driving for the Prince's back. He swung, Margaery certain he would land a blow on the Prince, but Damon was suddenly swinging his shield back as he twisted his body, blocking Eliot's strike with his shield while at the same time knocking Horas' away with his sword. Damon took a quick few steps back, gathering himself. Horas followed, but Eliot didn't, leaving the elder Redwyne twin to face Damon alone. A flurry of blows were all it took before Horas had yielded, and then it took all of no time for the squire to follow.
All told Margaery figured it only took half a minute; she'd barely had time to stop walking to watch before the sparring session was over.
"He took the idea from Garlan," came the voice of Loras behind her. Margaery turned to glance at her brother, splendid looking in his new white armor of the Kingsguard. Lean and fair, her brother was an attractive figure, one many said looked like the male version of Margaery and she the female version of him. She herself didn't see it save for their deep brown hair and eyes, but then Margaery figured she probably wouldn't.
Although, if I truly did look like Loras, one would think Renly would have been more willing. Or willing at all, for that matter.
But that was the past, and Margaery was making a point of focusing on the future. That future was Joffrey, even if the rumors she heard of her future husband were less than inspiring. That didn't matter in the slightest; Margaery was fully aware life wasn't like the stories of her childhood claimed, and she would suffer any manner of hardship if it meant she and her son after her sat the Throne.
"Took what idea?" Margaery hooked her arm through Loras' as she and her party began forward again. Ever since her arrival in the city as the future Queen a Kingsguard had been assigned 'for her protection', whether she liked it or not. The Rose of Highgarden didn't care for it in the slightest, though when it was Loras like today it wasn't as off putting as normal. But having a man in white armor always hanging about would never be completely welcome.
But I'll gladly grow accustomed to it as Queen. Margaery liked few things as much as she liked that title.
Her party began forward again, comprised mainly of her ladies-in-waiting and a few of the other noble women from the court. Several of her cousins, chief among them Megga and Elinor of lesser Tyrell branches, were giggling down at the courtyard and the men training there, likely ogling this one or that one. In the past Margaery would have done the same with carefree flirtatiousness, but now she knew better than to show any more interest than she already had. A good wife paid attention to only her husband, and while Margaery wasn't married as of yet, she needed to get in the habit.
Although it would be entirely too easy to look at Damon, who Margaery knew was receiving most of the attention in his black tunic that hardly fit his chest and arms. It was a shame Joffrey and his twin weren't identical in that regard.
"Training against more than one opponent. Garlan says it better prepares you for battle."
"And does it?"
Loras nodded softly, mind clearly flashing back to the Blackwater. Margaery and her brother shared almost everything, neither one out of the confidence of the other, but they hadn't spoken of the battle. She had been raised to be the perfect wife and lady of a castle (or Queen of a realm), and thusly hadn't been taught much of war or its intricacies. However, her grandmother had mentioned that those who saw battle were changed by it in ways those who hadn't couldn't hope to understand. Margaery heard a kernel of that truth in the odd tone to Loras' reply. "Yes, it does."
Normal Loras returned in force a moment later, when he glanced dismissively down at the courtyard and his voice became haughty. "Though training with those three isn't going to help anyone. Horas and Hobber? You could beat them. Handily."
Margaery giggled softly. "They say he is an excellent swordsman."
Loras shrugged stiffly. "I suppose so."
She nudged her brother lightly. "The famous Knight of Flowers isn't jealous, is he?"
The Kingsguard snorted. "I think not."
I think so, but I won't tease you about it. "And what of the King?"
Loras shook his head dismissively, then lowered his voice. As a Kingsguard he owed his loyalty to the King above all else, but that was only in theory. Loras' true allegiance was, as it always would be, to the interest of House Tyrell. And in this instance and most instances moving forward, that meant to her. "I don't know what he is, but a warrior he isn't."
Those were dangerous words, but on this open terrace above the training courtyard they were safer than most other places. The constant chatter of the other women with them kept their words from carrying overly far, and Loras was smart enough to keep his voice low enough to avoid reaching to the others. It was a precaution all of the inner circle of Tyrells had taken since the king had accepted the betrothal arraignment; they operated as if someone was listening at all times, since someone might well be.
"They say he left the walls while you and his brother were storming them."
"So they do."
So Joffrey, the first of his name, wasn't a hero. That didn't matter to Margaery, not at the base of it. Every maiden wanted a hero and Margaery was no different, but she would learn to live without one. Besides, heroes quite often got themselves killed in the prime of their lives, and Margaery needed Joffrey to live long enough to help her make a future King, the way Renly had not.
Renly was heroic, and Renly was dead.
It was a shame, that. She very well could have loved Renly Baratheon in time, no matter his taste for her brother. Joffrey, though, she doubted she ever would love.
"It doesn't matter," she said aloud.
Loras looked down at her. "What doesn't?"
"Any of it."
She told herself that often. In time it would prove true.
Baratheon family dinners had always been awkward at best, depressing at worst.
The addition of the Tyrells to this particular one hadn't helped much, at least not for Damon.
Joffrey sat at the head of the long, mahogany dining table, as was his right as King. Cersei, as Dowager Queen, sat to her eldest son's right. Margaery, as the future queen, sat to his left. Damon was very, very glad he wasn't between the two women. He didn't need to be Cersei's son to know she disliked Margaery, mostly because the Tyrell girls rise in power coincided with the Lioness' dip in it.
Not that Margaery showed any knowledge of her future goodmother's distaste. She had to know, but she was horribly pleasant to all of the Baratheon family, and the Lannister's as well. Damon wished that wasn't the case; it'd be easier to dislike her if she wasn't.
He was trying so desperately hard to hate her; the Prince assumed it would be impossible to be attracted to someone he hated. As it was she had proven to be nothing but witty and kind beneath her attractive exterior, much to his dismay. Damon knew it could be an act-part of his difficulties with people was he never knew when anyone was being sincere-but that didn't seem to make a difference. She was sweet with Tommen, kind to him in the few times he hadn't managed to avoid contact with her, and nothing but respectful and courteous with everyone else.
So, in summary, Damon was failing miserably at not liking her.
Now, more than ever, he wished he was back on the warfront. There were no beautiful maidens betrothed to his brother there, and never a lack of things to do.
He sat to his mother's right, Tommen his own. Lord Mace sat beside his daughter and across from Damon, followed on that side by Garlan and Olenna. Tywin, as Hand of the King and grandfather to the king, was next to Tommen and across from the Queen of Thorns, while Sers Balon Swann and Meryn Trant stood guard by the two entrances to the room. Tyrion was absent, as was his norm-Damon wasn't certain just where his uncle went, but considering the coolness with which both Cersei and Tywin treated the dwarf, Damon couldn't blame him.
At the very least, the addition of Mace Tyrell made certain the dinner wasn't quiet. The overweight, rambling Lord of the Reach kept a near constant stream of conversation through courses of boar, barley bread, blood melon, blueberry tarts and the rest. Damon found the talk borderline annoying, but that was normal for the Prince and he didn't know if Tyrell's blabbering was socially unacceptable. Judging by the looks Damon's family-and even Mace's own-periodically gave the Lord of the Reach, he was guessing it wasn't.
But Joffrey was nearly as talkative, regaling his bride to be with tales of their childhood and his past. Damon found the stories sickening to listen to, especially considering he knew the truth behind the tales. Occasionally they were complete falsehoods, making Joffrey sound like he wasn't a complete monster. Others were true but altered to make him sound better or, from time to time, Damon worse. It'd been like that ever since he had returned to King's Landing and his foolish show in the throne room. Joffrey had clearly heard something about his brother's actions on the battlefield, and he liked none of it.
Damon held his silence, mainly because there was nothing he could do. Calling his brother out as a liar in front of all those present would only create trouble, and in a war of words Damon knew Joff would win. The second son now had no doubt he could thoroughly embarrass the first with a blade or with fists, but attacking the king with live steel wouldn't exactly be any better than calling him a liar, and Joffrey had learned years ago to not spar with his twin. So Damon sat, and endured, and tried not to look at Margaery.
Tommen, too young to truly understand the underlying circumstances but old enough to know half of what Joffrey was saying was false, began to protest, but Damon hurriedly ruffled his hair and spoke over him. The Lord of Dragonstone could handle his brother's abuses and had done so for all of their respective lives; Tommen was still a child, and Damon wasn't about to let the youngest of the three Baratheon brothers draw the ire of the eldest.
Only once did Damon truly focus on the conversation, and that was when Lord Mace asked Tywin about the state of the war. "Stark has pushed his way into the Westerlands," his grandfather said. "How he slipped past the Golden Tooth without ever being seen is unknown to us, but he managed to assault my cousin Stafford at Oxcross. Our armies under Lord Damon Marbrand and his son Addam are pushing after him to root him out, while your own armies under Tarly are focusing on the Riverlands."
Ser Garlan, who seemed to share Damon's zest for martial pursuits, chimed in. "How many Riverlords still fight by his side?"
"The Freys, Mallisters and Blackwoods are his chief allies. Others support him, but most of the families of the Lords we hold hostage are withholding support. Bracken, Darry, Vypren, Cox, those ilk. Our capture of those lords, and more importantly of Edmure Tully, can't be understated." Tywin looked directly at Joffrey. "Prince Damon's actions have proven vital, on that front and others."
The prince was as shocked as the king was infuriated, though both Baratheons managed to keep their reactions hidden. Did Lord Tywin just...defend me?
The stories belittling Damon abruptly stopped.
The conversation was quickly resumed, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms making observations, the Queen of Thorns making barbs, the Lord of the Reach making japes. The Prince of Dragonstone, for his part, had almost made it through the night without making a fool of himself when tragedy struck.
He had been absently reaching for one of the sweetroll on the table before him, still pondering his grandfather's subtle defense of him. So distracted was the Prince that he didn't register another hand was doing the same, and before he knew what was happening the rough callouses of his hands were touching soft skin.
Damon froze as a shock stronger than a Clegane reverberated up his arm and through his body, focusing intently on one area in particular. His emerald eyes shot up to lock on Margaery's brown ones, his jaw dropping slightly from the ferocity of his reaction. For the first time since meeting her, Damon saw the Rose of Highgarden was flustered, cheeks reddening and eyes returning the shock.
Neither of them moved their hands for a solid three seconds.
Damon gathered his senses first, jerking his hand back as if the plate of sweetrolls were a Dornish viper coiled to strike. He stumbled over his words, still shaken by the intensity of the incidental contact and his reaction to it. "My...uh...sorry, my lady."
Margaery's face recovered its serene, pleasant look at once, her disarming smile rising as she took a roll from the plate. "Think nothing of it." But the blush was still there, and Damon swore her hands shook slightly.
He glanced to the side and saw Cersei looking at him with an eyebrow raised. He looked a little to the right and saw Joffrey staring back.
The King had seen the accidental touch. And judging by the loathing in his eyes, he had seen the reactions as well.
Well, Damon thought as he made a point of staring at the half-eaten honeyed chicken on his plate. Fuck.