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His grandfather found them in their courtyard. For a moment, Damon was furious that Tyrek had let him through the door, but that anger dissipated almost immediately. The King knew what had happened without needing to ask; Tyrek had told Tywin the King didn't want to be disturbed, Tywin had raised a single eyebrow, and through the door his grandfather had come.

Jaime rose from his crouch as the Hand of the King walked in a calm, measured pace towards them. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was drenched in sweat, golden bangs clinging to his forehead as he panted from exertion. Damon, much more composed, did the same. "Grandfather," he greeted, not knowing what to expect but doubtful it would be anything pleasant.

"Don't let me interrupt," the Lord of the Westerlands said as he came to a stop a dozen or so feet from them. He clasped his hands behind his back, as if he intended to settle in and watch the two of them. He does. Damon glanced to Jaime who suddenly was looking at the cobbled stone beneath their boots, unconsciously bringing his handless right forearm closer to his chest. Seeing their hesitation, Tywin spoke again, this time to his son. "I know you are learning again. I don't expect you to excel as you once did."

King and Kingsguard hesitated a moment longer. Damon settled his eyes on his uncle, giving him the full power of choice in this matter as he was the only one who had a reason to wish not to spar with Tywin present. If Jaime didn't wish to then they wouldn't, Tywin Lannister be damned.

But after only a moment, Jaime returned to his fighting crouch. The Lord Commander raised both his training blade and his eyes, giving Damon a confirmation nod as identical pairs of eyes met. Damon was glad to see that; he was still fuming at himself for the sentencing he'd given earlier. The king had come straight here without breaking stride after his exit from the throne room over and hour ago, and he and Jaime had been crossing blades ever since.

He took the fight to his uncle, perhaps a touch too savagely. Jaime still fought like a drunken squire, unfamiliar and unnatural with a blade in his left hand. Damon had noticed that he constantly moved his right arm, forearm angled so it would deflect a sword were a hand and blade attached to it. Sometimes Damon scored hits on Jaime's left arm and shoulder because his uncle would bring them up as if they were still clutching a shield, not a blade. Jaime had trained his body—the entire thing, not just his right hand—to fight with a sword one way since birth. Now, he was having to forget everything he had trained himself to mindlessly do and relearn it all differently.

It was a slow, grinding crawl forward.

But a crawl forward it was. Already Jaime had improved much from when they had first started mere days ago, and Damon was willing to give all the time he had to making that steady rise continue.

Even so, since Damon was still fighting the way he had always trained to, the king could counter his uncle's blade almost on instinct and reaction alone, leaving his mind free to wander. At the moment, and as it had been since before he'd even given the verdict, it was seething at his own selfishness. You knew. You knew the truth but decided to play the game anyway, and Tyrion will spend the rest of his life paying for my own wrong decision.

That thought and others like it dominated his mind so thoroughly that he all but forgot that Tywin—and even Jaime—were still in the courtyard until the former spoke. His grandfather's voice was, as always, calm and completely certain of itself.

"You don't believe he is guilty."

Damon paused only a moment, then nearly took Jaime's other hand off when he continued where he had left off. His uncle, after taking a small step back to gather himself, continued on without a word.

"No, I don't."

"Yet you found him so anyway."

"Yes, I did. All evidence points that way, and the Seven know Joff gave Tyrion plenty of reason to do it."

"Why?"

"Why what."

"Why did you rule against what you thought to be the truth?"

Damon had been hating himself for that answer already, of course. "Because I am no better than the others in this wretched city."

He said it with conviction and no small amount of anger, punctuating every few words with a vicious parry of his uncle's sword. Tywin was unmoved. "Save your personal emotions for another time when they might make a difference." It was a devastatingly cutting line to be delivered so calmly. His grandfather didn't even give it a moment to heal. "I want to know your reasoning for going against your own opinion."

Jaime, though he never stopped his sparring, grunted disapprovingly. "Let it rest at least a while, father."

"He is the king, Jaime," Tywin returned. "The king's word is law. And I wish to know, Your Grace, why you didn't pass a law you thought to be the truth."

Damon might have laughed had he been the easy-to-laughter sort. "Because being the king only goes so far."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Tyrion didn't do it, but I had no proof of that. If I had ruled him innocent with no reason why I'd be seen as a king who held no respect for judicial proceedings; no better than King Aerys or Joff or even my father."

"A lion doesn't concern himself with the opinion of sheep."

Damon stopped mid-swing to stare at his grandfather. "He does when half the flock is already trying to kill him and the rest are but a slight change in fortune away from doing the same."

Tywin held the gaze steadily. "Why the Wall, then?"

Jaime shook his head. "Tyrion is blood, whether or not you have ever wanted him to be."

Damon was more direct. "You'd have had me kill an innocent man?"

"You sent an innocent man to a frozen wasteland for the rest of his life."

Ouch. Damon returned to sparring, no longer wanting to so much as look at his grandfather. "It's like you said, grandfather. I am king, and that was my decision. I may be heartless enough to send him way when he was innocent, but I refuse to see Tyrion die. Besides; our houses are under enough scrutiny as it is—we can't be seen killing one another."

There was silence save for the clashing of blades for a long while before the Hand of the King spoke again. "Good. You're not as stupid as your brother or your father were. They'd have done whatever they wanted because they wanted to do it; neither of them understood that to be a king one must make sacrifices."

Damon, suddenly horribly weary of it all, sighed loudly, still sparring with Jaime. "I am in no mood for a lecture or even your wisdom, grandfather."

"As you wish."

Damon, though suspicious at how easily the matter was dropped, revealed in the ensuing silence for a long while. By the time someone finally spoke again, Tywin had seemed to come to a decision.

So had Damon.

"You should marry the Tyrell girl. I haven't brought the matter to your attention in respect to the loss of your brother, but we need the Reach. Olenna Redwyne will not long wait."

Damon, to the surprise of all present—himself included—nodded. "You're right. But I'm not going to yet, and the Queen of Thorns will have to wait at least a while."

"And why is that."

"Because, in the morning, I am going back to war."

"I don't understand his hesitation."

Nor do I.

Margaery sat as a queen within her own court, though not a queen of the Iron Throne. She'd been one of those things all of her life, the other for a fraction of a moment, but her intention on becoming both permanently had been met with much too much difficulty.

And her grandmother wasn't letting her forget it.

"You don't suppose he is like your first swordswallowing husband, do you? Perhaps we should set Loras upon this one as well, he might have better luck"

Margaery half-glared at her mother as her cousins Megga and Elinor burst into giggles and poor Garlan shifted uncomfortably. "I believe what Garlan has told us eliminates any possibility of that, grandmother. And even if his words didn't, rumor around court would."

The Queen of Thorns, seated under her favorite pavilion with a garden of hanging vines and other flora behind her, waved her hand dismissively. "Hearsay. If he has resisted you, my dear, there is something afoot."

Garlan shook his head calmly. "No. Whatever it might be, it isn't that."

"Noisy, is he?"

A blush crept up Garlan's neck as her cousins broke into giggling fits again. Margaery found it adorable; she loved all of her brothers of course, and Loras was probably her favorite, but Garlan was the steady, moral and proper rock of them all, steadier than even Willis. The Seven knew how someone such as their father had raised three sensible children, and a fourth who could be if he ever tried.

The Seven do know, and so do I; grandmother is the head of House Tyrell, all know it.

But, head or not, Margaery was only half listening to her grandmother's prattling, mind focused on her task at hand. Damon was proving difficult, much more difficult than their first interactions had had her believing it would be. The king was attracted to her physically, she was certain; most men were, and she had seen the very physical proof of Damon's interest in months prior.

So, if it wasn't a physical hang up, and both logic and her pride said it was not, then it must be something in the king's head. Perhaps love for another woman? The whore, maybe, this Bella whom Garlan, despite his distaste for her profession, spoke highly of. It wouldn't be the first time someone of royal blood had fallen for someone much below their station, a la Duncan the Small and Jenny of Oldstones. But something, maybe a gut feeling or simply a desire for it not to be so, made Margaery think that that wouldn't be an issue even if the Prince was in love with his mistress. Whatever his odd quirks and his shocking awkwardness when it came to small talk, Margaery knew full well Damon was no idiot. Graceless at times to be sure, and a touch gullible, but not stupid. He understood politics even if he had no skill for them, as evidenced by his ruling this morning. Margaery had the strong suspicion that Damon, despite his act, didn't think Tyrion anymore guilty than she herself did, and had condemned him guilty to please the smallfolk and nobles but sentenced him to the wall to save his life. Perhaps she was wrong, but Margaery doubted it.

Rarely was she wrong, at least in terms of reading people.

Which made her inability to get so much as five sentences out of the King since his return all the more vexing.

Regardless, Margaery doubted the whore would be an issue. Damon was unlikely to try something so foolish as marry her, and Margaery was confident that once she finally did break through the king's walls it wouldn't take her long to drive Bella from his mind. And even if she couldn't, Margaery could handle the king having a mistress or even mistresses so long as no children came from the unions. And that was something that could be handled as well, should the need arise.

Margaery squirmed for a moment in her seat, uncomfortable with the thought and horrified with how easily it had come to her. Is there nothing I would stop at in the quest for power? Her eyes flickered to her grandmother, who was discussing something with Garlan, and her heart sank. Grandmother clearly won't. Much as I admire her, do I want that to be me?

She subtly shook her head to clear her mind of that deep and disturbing well of thought, returning to the problem on hand. No, Bella was no threat for now, due to her lowborn birth. But if love for her wasn't the mental holdup of the king, what was? Love of another? Perhaps one who would be a threat?

Sansa Stark, tall and stunning, came very concerningly to Margaery's mind.

It made sense, in one regard. Lady Sansa was of a powerful house even if that house was currently at war with the king, and might be a key piece in bringing said war to a close. Physically she was a beauty, though nothing amorous seemed to have occurred between the lady and the king while both were on campaign—Garlan would been aware of that most likely, but even if he wasn't the septa he spoke of would have been a deterrent in addition to Sansa's willingness or likely lack thereof. Sansa also was, in her and Margaery's once plentiful interactions, completely proper and correct in her actions and words, which probably would suit the king at least moderately.

And, if the spies were to be believed, Tywin had once intended Sansa to marry Damon when Joffrey was still alive. It had been to counter the Tyrell's own attempts to marry Sansa to Willas, and nothing had ever been announced, but the idea had apparently been there.

There were drawbacks, of course. Sansa had hated Joffrey and rightfully so, had warned Margaery just before Sansa left with Damon of Joffrey's habits, and while comparing the king and his dead twin was akin to comparing warhorses to kitchen cats, Sansa seemed to hold all of the Lannisters in a place of fear and disgust. Whether that had changed on campaign or not was unknown—she hadn't seen Sansa since the day of the king's return, despite her attempts—but it certainly wasn't fertile ground for a blooming relationship. Politically, despite the potential peace a match with Sansa could bring between northern and southern Westeros, Margaery was the more prudent choice. The Reach had many more men than the North, and most were already fighting for the king. What's more, the Reach had food in abundance, something Damon needed for both his armies and his capitol, which had nearly assassinated Joffrey amidst a riot over bread before she and the Tyrell's had arrived. And all of that support, militaristic and logistic, was provided on the unspoken agreement that Damon would wed and bed Margaery in place of his brother, who had only managed to do one of those things.

But it was a threat, and Margaery couldn't afford to ignore it. The sooner she was wed and firmly in place as Queen, the better.

So, in summation of my own thoughts, I'm back at square one; how the fuck do I get the king to hurry up and marry me already?

Part of Margaery wondered if a straightforward, shameless seduction was needed. It probably wouldn't be hard; all she needed was a night when Loras was on duty and a sheer shift of a gown, and she could be within the king's chambers and his bed in minutes. Honor would demand he wed her afterwards to prevent scandal and the withdrawal of Tyrell support, and Damon would likely do so. It wasn't foolproof, but it would certainly be effective in securing her place as queen.

Of course, it came with drawbacks. Men seldom liked feeling forced into doing anything, especially by a woman; Damon would feel trapped into marrying her, and would detest her for it. While it might strongarm the king into making her queen in title, there was nothing they could do afterwards to make Damon give her any real power, however much he would need to. And he would need to; Damon may be a warrior of growing renown and may not be a political dimwit, but he was poor at charming nobles and making the smallfolk love him, whereas Margaery excelled at that game. But if he refused to accept her help, to seek it, then she would be a Queen with a crown but little palpable influence, and that would almost be as bad as not being a queen at all.

It would be simpler if she could do it the more pious way, by charming him and alleviating the stresses and fears that came with the crown. That was how she would prefer to do it, as it would wrap Damon more firmly around her finger in the process. It was all in all the better option, even if a not-so-small part of her wanted to find out if all they said about the king's skills were true. But even that would come in time, though later than if she went with the first option. The pious option was much better for her goals and endgame than the fun one, though it would take time she didn't know if she had.

She was still hemming and hawing mentally, trying to determine a course of action, when her grandmother kicked her none-too-gently under the table. "Have you heard nothing I have been saying, girl?"

Margaery shook her head to clear it, smiling sheepishly. "My apologies, grandmother. I have been lost in my own thoughts."

Lady Olenna opened her mouth to speak, but the wrong voice filled her ears from the direction of the keep.

"Ser Garlan."

Margaery was rising even as she turned to look, knowing who had spoken at once. King Damon Baratheon, wearing his unassuming outfit of black and gold, was striding towards them, Sers Jaime and Balon flanking him. The others in the Tyrell party bowed at the same time Margaery did, though she doubted any of them stared a hole through the king while doing so like she did. Damon studiously ignored her, staring at her brother and pointedly not her.

Garlan stepped to the fore of the party, though he took a subtle angle in doing so that put Margaery behind his right shoulder and more in the king's view. She could have kissed him for it. Bless you, Garlan. "Yes, Your Grace," her brother asked.

Damon came to a stop only a pace away. "I am riding back to the front the morning after next. I would be honored if you would once again accompany me."

Garlan bowed. "The honor is mine, Your Grace."

No it isn't you imbecile, Margaery thought, concerning the same brother she had just mentally praised. The Rose of Highgarden had almost settled on playing the longer game, but that required the king to be in King's Landing, not at the front where men kept trying to kill him. If he left for the front again, ostensibly with Sansa Stark once more in tow, he ran too many risks. Risks of getting killed, which was displeasing to Margaery. And risks of agreeing to marry Sansa Stark to end the war on that front, which was just as displeasing if not more so.

Damon nodded once, paying neither her nor her racing thoughts any mind. "Excellent. A council is being held with my grandfather and Kingsguard tomorrow. I would like you to come." Suddenly his emerald eyes shifted to Lady Olenna. "After a coronation ceremony, seeing as I have yet to find the time for one until now. It will be small and short, but I would like you to attend, Lady Olenna."

And suddenly, shutting off her inner ravings that he hadn't so much as looked at her yet, the king did. Emerald met brown, and only her training, as it were, reminded her to give a small, sultry grin. "And you, Lady Margaery."

She spoke in return, not letting him look away now that she had his attention. "We would be honored, my king."

His eyes flashed, but held hers a moment longer before he finally looked back to Garlan. "Good. I will expect you all then." Damon started to turn away.

Then, abruptly, as if he was acting on impulse, he turned back around and took Margaery's hand in his calloused one. The contact shocked now as it had all those months ago, causing the prize of House Tyrell to start violently. Damon, undeterred, placed a surprisingly gentle kiss to the back of her hand.

The feel of lips on skin did very, very interesting things within the Rose of Highgarden.

Damon met her eyes once more, and when he spoke again his voice was deeper and huskier than normal. "Until then."

And, as quickly as he had taken it, the king dropped her hand, whirled, and all but sprinted away, a red flush on his face.

Margaery watched him go, unable to speak. Which was all well and good, for Olenna spoke for them all. "Well. Maybe he isn't a swordswallower after all."

Definitely not.

Her mind wondered, completely unbidden, if Loras was on duty tonight.

A/N: *tease* Next chapter: Sometimes you just have to break into a king's bedroom.

**second tease** the first one may or may not be a legitimate tease. Guess you'll have to wait and find out :)