Author's Note: I'm as surprised as you guys are.
Posting on back to back days? I don't think I have done that since the Dragon of Duskendale. But I woke up this morning with the below stuff pretty much written in my head, so I found some time this evening to jot it down and saw no point in not going ahead and posting. Sadly I don't foresee the next chapter being the same haha!
Thanks for all the favorites, follows and reviews, particularly on last chapter. Also, we broke 600 followers, so massive thanks for the support! Y'all rock.
Second, very brief a/n below, so check that out por favor.
As always, I hope you enjoy and review this update.
The Lord of Hayford Hall had grown used to things happening in the dead of the night.
Word of King Robert's death had reached their camp in the earliest hours of the morning, long before the sun would rise. So too had the word that Stannis was descending on the capitol with the majority of Renly's host, and over half of the engagements he and the Prince he followed had fought in had been underneath the stars rather than the sun.
The days, by contrast, were much more boring and tame. He trained, rode and otherwise killed time until darkness and its dangers fell. Each night when he lay down on his cot he expected to be woken by the sounds of screams and crackling flame or the melancholy tone of a courier bringing bad tidings. That very thing had already happened more than once, and he expected them to happen again.
So when he saw the messenger and his dying horse being escorted through his camp in the middle of a sunny day, he expected it only to be more threats from the capitol or war news centered around Stannis. Maybe even an answer from Robb Stark, though he still had two and a half days to answer Damon before the Prince's ultimatum was up.
Not that Tyrek had any idea what Damon was going to do if Robb didn't respond within the allotted timeframe; the Prince had confided in Tyrek that he didn't have any idea either. He supposed their only option would be to take this rogue force and move forward to engage the King in the North, sending word back to the pissed capitol that Damon the Daring could use some of the Reachman reinforcements he'd been wise enough to forgo requesting thus far. The Prince had been spending several hours a day with his chief commanders, coming up with potential ways to go about just that but not yet having found one anyone could agree on.
Tyrek glanced to the Prince as soon as he saw them, opening his mouth to say something about them but closing them as soon as he saw Damon was already standing, still holding a bowl of venison stew in one hand. Tyrek also rose to his feet, the others that had been sharing the midday meal following suit. Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Garlan Tyrell both lay their bowls on the stumps they had just vacated, preparing to pass on any orders that might be forthcoming to their respective commands. Ser Balon Swann popped his back before taking up position to the king's right as Bella, who had been responsible for the stew the commanders had been eating, straightened from stirring the broth in the hanging pot, glancing once at her Prince. Damon didn't return the glance, but he gestured for her to stay with a flick of his free hand.
That came to the surprise of no one, much less Tyrek. While Bella spent her nights with Sansa Stark and Septa Morra, her days were spent mostly in the company of Damon, both publicly and privately. The Prince had stopped concerning himself with hiding it for the most part, and if it bothered any of the cadre of commanders, no one said anything.
The messenger was sweaty and had bags under his eyes, clearly not having slept in well over a day. He wore the black and red trappings of House Thorne, the closest Crownland house to their current position inside the Riverlands. His escorts, one a Marbrand retainer and the other a soldier of House Tyrell, left him as soon as they delivered him to the Prince's cookfire, bowing in respect before turning their horses to return to their scouting duties. Many of the scouting parties were on long, winding searches for Jaime Lannister—Damon and Tyrek had only returned form one of their own mere hours earlier.
Whatever news the man carried must have been important, for he had ridden his horse so hard that Tyrek doubted the animal would have made it another half mile. It's bay hide was probably a few shades lighter than the dark bay it looked to be, true color hidden by the sweat and foam covering every inch of its body.
The messenger dismounted with the crack of joints and a grunt of pain, deepening into a bow of his own in the direction of Damon before reaching into his leather satchel, withdrawing a folded piece of parchment and extending it to the Prince of Dragonstone. "A message from the capitol, Your Grace. I was told to get it here as quickly as physically possible."
Damon took the offered parchment, Tyrek seeing the seal of the hand of the king pressed into the wax as the parchment exchanged hands. "Thank you. Bella, a meal for him." Even as he said this Damon was extending the sealed parchment towards Tyrek, who had already withdrawn a dagger, splitting the wax seal quickly. Damon opened it one handed, still clearly intent on returning to the stew in his other hand as soon as this inconvenience of command was over.
Tyrek saw his friend's face change as he read the letter, body as still as a statue even if his face didn't give anything away. He stared at it for a long, long time. As the messenger accepted a bowl of stew from Bella and followed the summoned squire leading his poor horse away to be cared for, Tyrek found himself growing anxious. Damon's face never flickered, never showed so much as a hint of emotion, but the knuckles of the hand still holding his meal grew white.
After forever and a day, as the commanders and the courtesan stared at him in growing concern, Damon finally moved. He shifted his gaze to the trampled grass beneath his feet, extending both hands out. The bowl he gave to Bella, who took it and did nothing to hide the concern on her face as she gazed at his emotionless face. The letter he extended to Tyrek, who took it while giving Damon the same exact look Bella was.
Then, the Prince simply turned and walked into his tent, closing the flap behind him.
All eyes stared at the canvas for a moment, before simultaneously turning to Tyrek. The Lannister knight opened the parchment in his hand, reading the lines that changed everything about everything thrice before speaking.
"Sers, please form an honor guard. Whatever you agree is best to protect Damon but still move quickly towards the capitol. I'll begin getting the necessary provisions aligned. Bella, get Lady Sansa prepared to leave on horseback. Then, go to Damon." He let his eyes settle on the girl. "Your King needs you."
She was the queen, except she wasn't.
She had been—twice—but now she was merely a former queen who had lost her king…also twice. She had been Renly Baratheon's queen, but when someone or something struck him down that night in the Reach she had stopped using the title. Afterwards she had become the queen of Joffrey Baratheon for all of half a day, until he choked to death on poison mere feet from her. Neither marriage had been consummated, the first because of her husband's preference for her brother and the latter because there had been absolutely no time. That left Margaery Tyrell, the Rose of Highgarden, a twice widowed maid.
And not a queen.
Margaery didn't think herself overly greedy. She wanted power of course—many did, and there was no sin in it. She wanted power for the Reach, for House Tyrell, and of course for herself. But a woman could only amass so much power of her own in Westeros, and in all places except for Dorne a woman's power began and ended with the power her husband held.
More precisely, with the power she held over him.
Margaery could have controlled either Renly or Joffrey. The former because she had information that could destroy him and incentive not to use it, painting her as a friend and ally to a man. And she would have been those things, whatever Renly Baratheon's taste in the bedchamber; he was a good man, a caring one, and would have made a charming, pretty face to show the people while Margaery worked her way into a true power in Westeros.
Joffrey she could have controlled because he was starving for affection and approval. He had also been a complete monster, one whose face was appealing but whose look made her skin crawl and psychotic ravings made her stomach twist in revulsion and, yes, fear. That would have been a harder task, at least in terms of keeping his want and need to torture others controlled and hidden. Running the kingdoms in his stead, though, would have been a simple matter; Joffrey Baratheon had no interest in running the kingdoms and certainly no skill for it. Her only obstacle in power from that angle was his grandfather, Lord Tywin Lannister. That struggle would have been hard fought and likely very, very underhanded.
And might still be, if her family got what it wanted.
Her as queen. Again, but this time with a king much more moldable and much less insane.
Margaery shifted as subtly as she could, keeping her face expressionless as she listened to the testimony of yet another witness, this one Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard. The trial of Tyrion Lannister had been a difficult thing for her. In one sense that was good, because as the bereaved widow of the dead Joffrey Baratheon she was expected to show some discomfort when at the trial of her husband's killer. It was also a problem, because she was genuinely distressed to see Tyrion stand accused of something she knew he didn't do.
Tyrion Lannister was innocent. He hadn't killed Joffrey Baratheon.
And she knew who did.
She didn't, actually. Not who had actually slipped the poison to the king or who had supplied it. She supposed she wasn't even completely sure who had given the order, not with evidence or factual knowledge.
But Margaery Tyrell knew. She knew it in her bones and in her heart of hearts. She'd never been warned or told anything, not a word about what her grandmother and others had planned, but down deep she had almost expected it. While it was a shock, it wasn't necessarily a surprise when the king had stared choking.
Tyrion Lannister hadn't killed Joffrey Baratheon, House Tyrell had. They hadn't done it for the good of the realm or to take revenge or any such noble cause—they had done it so that their rose, their beautiful daughter who had been raised from the moment she was born to be the perfect queen, could marry someone different and still be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
They did it for greed. They did it for power.
They did it for her.
And Tyrion Lannister would die for it.
Margaery had the decency to feel guilty about that, and about the fact that she was relieved her second husband had died.
Life with Joffrey would have given her the power she had always craved, but it would have been…less than pleasant, on the personal side of things. While she had no doubt she could have made the firstborn son of Robert—if he truly was the son of Robert—love her more than life itself, people were what they were. He would still have been the same monster beneath the surface, no matter what facades he put on or what differences she could make in him. There would always be that madness, and who knew what it might cause him to do to her. Or to their children.
She had felt many things while she watched Joffrey die, but she wouldn't deny that relief had been one of them.
But Joffrey was dead. And her father and grandmother were already pushing Lord Tywin to 'keep the alliance' between House Tyrell and House Baratheon-Lannister. Tywin seemed to be in complete support of it, even if Dowager Queen Cersei most certainly was not. Margaery seemed to be the only one to realize that another, very vital individual had a say in that matter. Not that she was worried about that.
Damon of House Baratheon—now King Damon of House Baratheon, first of his name, even if he had yet to be crowned—had been gone from the capitol for months, since only a few weeks after she and House Tyrell had arrived in King's Landing. He was somewhere in the Riverlands, either fighting Robb Stark or trying to make peace with him, depending on who you want to believe. He had Sansa Stark with him, sent alongside then-Prince Damon and Margaery's own brother Garlan to try and broker a peace. Or abducted by then-Prince Damon and his cousin Tyrek for the same reason, if her grandmother and her sources were to be believed. Margaery had no reason not to.
Damon the Daring indeed.
Whatever the true story, his absence and what might or might not have changed in that amount of time didn't bother Margaery. She remembered the first time she had seen the Prince, or more precisely the first time he had seen her. Margaery may technically be a maid, but she knew plenty about men and how they thought. She had seen the flash in Damon's eyes the second they found hers and knew exactly what it had meant, and precisely how…intrigued the now-King had been with her.
And how terrified.
Margaery also remembered, perhaps too vividly, that night she and her family had first taken dinner with Joffrey and his. She remembered his reaction to the accidental touch of their hands, saw it had shaken him deeply. She also remembered it had shaken her, an unexpected occurrence, but she of course had recovered from it quickly. Damon had not, and had spent the next days avoiding her like the Great Spring Sickness.
She knew why. Then, it had been only a point worth noting, possibly to use as an ally later or for some lighthearted fun. It could have become a problem if she weren't more in control of herself than she was, but Margaery wouldn't throw her position away for a golden face, no matter what his touch made her do involuntarily. Now, though, it was something she could and would use.
And the sinful side of her imagined it would be very, very fun. She'd heard the rumors. She'd felt the effect in tiny doses. And if she could have that effect on Damon without trying, imagine what she could if she actually did.
Things are bound to become interesting, when the King returns to King's Landing.
As if at her summons, at that very moment he did.
The doors to the Great Hall opened suddenly, amidst the testimony of another 'witness' whose name Margaery had missed amid her inner musings. Lord Tywin, her father and Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne—the judges filling in for the king in his absence—looked to the head of the hall, the Hand of the King's brow furling in irritation at the interruption. Abruptly, however, they stood.
Margaery looked that direction, and quickly did the same even as something in her lurched oddly.
Damon Baratheon strode down the center of the hall with none of the discomfort she had come to expect from him, the gathered crowd on both sides near falling over one another in their haste to rise. He was dressed in black and gold armor, a sword at his side and a helm tucked under one arm. His golden face, framed by golden hair shorn short, was completely blank, emerald eyes staring straight ahead of him as he all but marched towards the Throne that now belonged to him. He paid no mind to anything, eyes locked on dais of the chair of melted swords Tywin Lannister had stepped away from at his instance.
Four figures followed him, three in armor of their own and the last in a dress of blue silk. To Damon's right and slightly behind, dressed in Lannister crimson and gold, walked Tyrek Lannister, face similar in features to his kingly cousin though he was shorter and broader. His face was also blank, following his friends every move like the loyal companion he had proven to be. To the king's left walked her own brother, in his green armor and cape, like the other two wearing a sword and looking for all the world like they were on a battlefield. Behind them, side by side, came Ser Balon Swann in his Kingsguard white, morning star and sword both sheathed on his hips, and Sansa Stark, a stunning contrast in her dress to the armored knights she followed.
Margaery registered the others with a quick, cursory glance. Her eyes immediately returned to the King of the Iron Throne, tall and strong and, if she had anything to say about it, soon to be hers.
The courtiers clamored and bowed, shouting greetings or condolences. King Damon paid none of it any mind, eyes never straying and face never changing as he walked forwards, slowing only subtly, his companions mimicking his motions exactly.
The King came to a stop next to the bench where a dwarven, chained figure stood watching him. The clamor of the court died down as the King, for the first time since entering, looked away from the throne. Damon turned his head slowly to the right, eyes falling on the man he thought killed his brother.
Margaery, heart racing in the excitement, found herself leaning forward as Damon said something in a low voice to his uncle, though she didn't manage to hear just what it was. Tyrion Lannister met his eyes and held them for a long while, then shook his head once.
Damon stared, emerald on offset emerald and black, for a long, long while, as the now-quiet throne room waited with baited breath. Then, abruptly, he looked to his grandfather. Tywin and the other judges had descended from the dais of the throne as Damon had made his way forward, as was protocol. At his look Tywin stepped forward to his grandson's side, and more quiet words were exchanged. Margaery again was too far away to hear anything, though she doubted it would have mattered if she had been anywhere but net to them; they spoke very quietly indeed.
King and Hand nodded at the same time, both with carefully blank expressions though Margaery thought she saw a hint of annoyance in Tywin's pale eyes. Both men turned to face the gathered crowd, and Margaery instinctually found herself looking to Tywin for the inevitable proclamation.
To her utmost surprise it came from Damon, though it was classically succinct of him. "We are adjourned for the day."
He turned away with no more words, stepping forward to take his mother in his arms for a brief hug. Tywin, at the same time, spoke to the crowd. "Return at the break of dawn three days hence for the resumption of the trial. Ser Meryn, please escort the prisoner back to his cell."
Margaery kept her gaze on Damon, willing him to look at her. After a few moments, he did. She smiled, lightly, not in a suggestive or flirty manner but just enough. Damon held her gaze for a long moment, and then, to her utter shock, abruptly turned away.
And froze dead in his tracks, as he found himself face to face with Jaime Lannister.
A/N: Stuff is finally happening guys. My Margaery is going to be different than George's or HBO's, but y'all will have to wait and see in what ways.
So is my Sansa.
And we're moving forward with both of them. ;)
*tease* Next chapter: Reunion of nephew/son and uncle/father and the woman one of them wants to bang like a pinky toe...or does he?