Author's Note: Hello again lads and ladies. Thank you for all of the support and reviews on the last chapter! They really mean a lot and make me want to try and get content out to you sooner. I fail at that a lot but hey, the effort is there!
The Bella/Margaery interaction as discussed. I had about half of this written months ago, and found myself finishing it in a haze of inspiration. I'm glad so many of you wanted to read it, and I hope it doesn't disappoint.
I hope you enjoy and review this update. Y'all rock.
She found her target kneeling in the mud.
Margaery had envisioned the king's mistress a specific way, despite Garlan's championing of her sound character. She had imagined her a girl of clearly inferior birth strutting around in jewels and expensive clothing, giving orders to the army of the man whose bed she warmed, enjoying the power that came with sleeping with a king. Even if she was in no way publicly acknowledged—and she wasn't, though anybody with access to Damon on campaign was bound to know of her 'duties'—the commanding nobles and officers would know she had the ear of the man on the throne. What girl, especially one of a peasant background who had been forced into whoring by the death of her family, would not wallow in that type of power given the chance?
This one, apparently, Margaery thought as she quietly approached the hunched figure.
Bella of Wayfarer's Town, lover of a king, stood with her dress-covered knees in the mud of the shore with a score of other camp followers, her slender arms methodically dipping and rinsing a shirt of burgundy and black. Spread out behind her on the riverbank were rows of tubs and washboards, lye soaps and wands, all the items used for washing garments. Or at least Margaery assumed that to be the case; truth be told she'd never washed a garment in her life, hers or another's. She realized the brigade was not all women as she approached, men intermixed and washing their own clothes or even their naked bodies in the cold water, paying no attention to the presence of women. This isn't the place for a lady, but neither was Damon's bedchamber. I was there for a night, I can be here for a moment.
She had brought only Loras and four Tyrell knights; Garth, Arlan and Samwell Tyrell, cousins of various ages and varying closeness to the main branch, and old Ser Garris Dunn, who had been ancient as long as Margaery could remember but who still rode and walked with the gait and vigor of a lad of twenty. They quietly formed a box around the mound of clothing Bella was washing and her equipment, Loras making it clear to those close by that it would be in their best interests to be elsewhere with quiet words and pointed gestures. Those closest moved off with no argument, likely used to knights randomly herding them away and pouncing upon the excuse to leave the freezing water and warm up at one of the dozens of fires scattered around the encampment.
The Rose of Highgarden turned from watching the others leave to find Bella had risen from kneeling over the laundry, knees muddy, eyeing the six newcomers with a blank expression. Margaery seized the moment to take her in, looking the paramour over thoroughly. She was much as Garlan had described her, a short, slender girl with modest features; dark eyes, so dark as to be almost black, but the rest of her rather unremarkable. Pretty enough but not one man fought wars for, not with a nose that had been broken and hadn't healed straight. This is who so bedeviled our king? She is far from ugly but not a beauty either.
The girl's eyes settled on Margaery, understanding of some sort gleaming there as she unconsciously straightened beneath the Tyrell gaze. Her face remained impassive, waiting for Margaery to speak, an expected action in one lowborn. Holding her gaze however was not, though Bella did. Perhaps she had taken a liking to the power her association with Damon brought.
Margaery wasn't offended, so smiling at the woman and taking a few steps closer to where she stood at the edge of the water was easy to do. "You must be Bella."
The girl swallowed inaudibly, curtseying without reaching for the hem of her skirts due to the shirt in her hand. Her voice did not give away any nervousness she may be feeling though, steady as she spoke. "I am m'lady. Are you the Lady Tyrell?"
She knows of me? Does that mean the king has spoken of me to her? "I am." She dropped her glance down to the soaked garment in the girls hands. "Wash day I see, though that is large enough to be a blanket on you."
Bella glanced down at the burgundy and black garment in her hands. "Ser Alaric Langward's, m'lady. Camp life can be boring, and men pay well to have clean clothing they didn't clean themselves." She'd glanced back at Margaery on the word 'pay', no shame in her eyes. Margaery imagined one couldn't have much of that, not in her profession.
She knew that Bella was exclusively Damon's while on campaign from a sexual standpoint, but apparently her other services extended beyond the king's tent when he wasn't present. And he isn't, as I have been informed. "I imagine so. I respect the need for coin, but may I poach you away to a meal in my own quarters? There are some matters I'd like to discuss, woman to woman."
Apprehension flitted across the whore's face. Understandable; for all she knew Margaery was planning on having her removed, eliminating the woman who had been sleeping with the man most knew Margaery intended to wed. Though I wouldn't go about it so haphazardly. Many a noble woman has arranged the death of others, but having them disappear from said lady's own chamber? Much too blatant, and even if I were not imprisoned for murder my reputation as a kind, pious woman would be tattered. It'll take enough damage simply by having a whore take a meal with me.
Margaery said none of this out loud, letting Bella peer at her for a long moment. "Of course, m'lady." Taking a calming breath Bella probably did not think Margaery noticed, she slowly walked towards her stash of work, hands twisting the fabric of Alaric Langward's shirt unconsciously and eyeing the two piles of clothing, one clean and one not, that remained to her. "Though I may need some time to see to these."
"Nonsense," Margaery interjected cheerily. She turned to two of the knights. "Samwell, Garth, will you please see this clothing is cleaned by another of the camp followers? Pay them extra if need be, but assure it remains together for Bella to dole out to its owners." Both of her cousins nodded, and she turned a smile on the whore. "See? Sorted."
Bella smiled smally, dropping the shirt onto one of the piles, then smoothed her skirt and squared her shoulders. "After you, m'lady."
Being the only noblewoman in the camp, aside from the northern Mormont family she had heard mention of, had paid dividends. Ser Loren Lannister of the Lannisport branch was in charge of the camp in the absence of Damon and the majority of the commanders, and it had taken only a few smiles from her to prompt him to show her to Garlan's door. As one of three immediate members of the Seven Great Houses, the others being Robb Stark and Damon of course, he had been given one of the—conveniently—three private quarters in the small holdfast tower. She hoped her brother wouldn't be too put out by her commandeering it whilst he was away with the king, but she'd be able to sweet talk him even if he were; Garlan, despite usually knowing he was being manipulated, had always been clay in her hands.
Megga and Elinor had taken to settling her in with gusto, especially considering the three of them would have to share the smallish bed the quarters provided. She liked having her cousins near her, both for the convenience they brought by knowing her goals and abetting them as well as by the comfort their familiar presences provided, but it would be a cramped…however long they were there.
Unless I manage to work my way into a different bed of a night… She stopped the thoughts before they could progress too far. Best not entertain that mindset.
Bella said little as they mounted on horses held by yet another cousin, Ser Jon Tyrell, and started the approach to the roundtower. Queenscrown, named such after a visit from Queen Alysanne Targaryen two hundred years ago, was a small holdfast tower surrounded by the lake. The approach was not a straightforward endeavor by any means; the path, submerged beneath two feet of water for most of the journey, was full of sharp turns and drop-offs, meant to slow an approaching force and prolong their time under archer fire from the tower itself. It was a winding path that went nearly three-quarters of the way around the island before coming to the stone steps leading out of the water. It was somewhat inconvenient to traverse with regularity, but only a select few were kept in the tower and those were of high enough blood to have most of their needs brought to them. And since her entire goal on this journey was one of those select few, it was there she intended to be.
Little was said until, half an hour later, they finally entered the chambers she'd stolen from her brother, with its small bed, smaller table with two chairs and two burning braziers. Megga and Elinor had seen to it that a sparse meal of venison stew had been left on the table, still steaming though there was no sign of either of the Tyrell girls. "Please, take a seat," Margaery said with a wave of her hand, eyeing the wet knees of the other's dress. I can't imagine that to be comfortable, but I don't intend to offer her one of my own. Even I have limits. "We can talk after the both of us have eaten."
As far as awkward meals went, it wasn't the worst Margaery had experienced, though tension continually built throughout as both women quietly chewed and sized one another up. For the whore was sizing Margaery up she knew; smallfolk or not, timid in speech or not, Bella was judging Margaery as closely as Margaery was her. She probably should feel offended, and a small part of her did, but Margaery was much too keen on the information this girl had to let pride get in the way; she'd already sacrificed most of it anyway by chasing the king north and resorting to these methods. Within a few minutes both were done, and on unspoken accord straightened in their respective chairs.
Margaery, as was normally her way, went first. "I will be honest with you, Bella; I am not entirely sure how to begin this conversation."
The whore nodded smally. "I imagine you are here to talk about the king."
She nodded. "I am. From rumor, you have quite…intimate knowledge of King Damon."
"I am a whore." Bella said it calmly, not with malice but perhaps a bit of challenge, as if daring Margaery to be offended by her open admittance of such a disfavored trade. "The king pays me to keep both his quarters and his bed while he is on campaign."
If you expect me to be rattled, you are mistaken. "You are a whore, yes, and yes he does. A woman in that position is likely to be privy to quite a bit of information about him."
Bella's face hardened. "I will not betray Damon."
Protective. It would behoove me to tread carefully. "I am not asking you to, Bella. I merely have some questions."
"About Damon's business?"
Margaery kept any sound of the flare of irritation out of her voice. "In a way."
"Then forgive me, m'lady, but I will not be answering."
They stared at one another, Margaery reining in her own flashing temper and no small amount of indignation at Bella's tone to one of superior station and birth. "I do not want us to be rivals, Bella." Then, with a touch of warning. "You don't want that either."
A bit of apprehension may have crossed the—younger? older?—woman's face, though she hid it admirably well, simply repeating herself. "I will not betray Damon."
"Excellent. Don't. I am not asking for keys to his chamber or who his letters are going to." Though I intend to have both when this is said and done, mark my words. "You are loyal to the King, and I respect that."
Bella cocked her head. "Then what are you asking, Lady Tyrell?"
"About him."
The mistress cocked an eyebrow. "In what ways?"
Margaery inwardly braced herself, fighting off the wave of humiliation and embarrassment. It killed her to ask this, her pride and high birth and a hundred other things that made her who she was completely opposed to asking such a question of anyone. But Margaery prided herself on her pragmatism above all else, and if this information helped her catch Damon Baratheon then she would ask it. The king is the goal. This is a means to an end.
She tilted her head back. "What he hates. What he enjoys. Why he comes to you instead of others and how you made him do it. The king trusts you and confides in you, something he never does with anyone else who does not have Lannister blood. I want to know why. I want to know how to make him trust me that way."
Margaery tilted her head down and eyed Bella sternly, letting her embarrassment turn into irritation and using that to put an edge to her voice. "Let me be clear, Bella of Wayfarer's Town. I intend to marry the king. I want this information to help me achieve doing that, but you not giving it to me will not stop me from accomplishing that goal. You have his ear and can make this smoother or harder as you will it, but it will happen. The only unknown factor is what happens to you afterwards."
Bella did a wonderful job of appearing and sounding unafraid, especially for one so terrified. "Do you intend to kill me, Lady Margaery?"
The Rose of Highgarden shook her head. "And alienate the king? Of course not." Her face and tone softened. "Plus I don't make a habit of killing people, Bella, nor do I want to start. I may have come off a touch harsh; I do not begrudge you your attachment with Damon. He is a man, and you are a woman, and this is the way of world. While I will not lie and say I am thrilled by the idea of Damon having a mistress after I am Queen, but at the moment I am willing to accept it. You, as a lowborn, are more acceptable than others." Like Sansa Stark, not that she ever would. Or at least I do not think she ever would. "But I will be the one to bear the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, my dear. My tolerance has bounds. And if you do not
The whore looked at her for a long time. "I understand." A pause. "Are you asking what he likes in the bedchamber, then?"
Margaery faintly blushed. I have some ideas on that front already, Bella. Apparently, Damon had not disclosed that to the whore. She felt a touch of relief at that; if he had not told Bella, it seemed unlikely he would have told much of anyone. "No. My pragmatism will not trump my pride and allow me to ask that of you. I want to know about him. I have dealt with Damon the Prince and Damon the King." And Damon the Lover. "I know he has a spine of steel and a tongue of knots. I know he has a sword arm from the gods and a penchant for being unpredictable as well as a softness for his younger brother and a fear of my grandmother. But I couldn't tell you a thing about him that isn't, at least partially, court knowledge. Forget Damon the royal and tell me of Damon the man."
Silence descended.
Margaery didn't press, merely taking a sip of the northern ale Megga and Elinor had left—strong stuff that nearly had her spluttering at first sip—and allowing Bella to gather her opinions.
When the whore finally spoke, her voice was soft. "He likes the smell of honeysuckle and the taste of Arbor Gold. Words don't come easy to him but he likes it when you talk to him about unimportant things; hopes, your day, silliness like that." The young woman was absently twisting her dress in her hand, her eyes unseeing on the floor. "He never truly loved hunting but he still goes on occasion because it reminds him of the only thing he and his father did together. He's never told me that last one, but it will be obvious. He hates fishing.
"Words don't do much for him; he's never been good at them and tends to mistrust them. He sees things logically and struggles to understand why others don't, but also is driven by his passions more than anything else. When he gets an idea he deems is a good one it takes the Seven and all their septons to steer him away from it. Even still, he wonders if he is making the right decision. No matter what he will bull ahead as if he can't be wrong."
Her eyes met Margaery's. "Do not try to talk Damon in circles. He will know you are even if he doesn't know exactly how, and while it might work for a time, he won't forget it. He will need you after a battle more than any other time. Do not ask; let him tell you." She swallowed once. "He is hard to get to know. He is easy to get to love."
Bella stood suddenly, picking the frayed fringe of her muddy dress up and curtseying awkwardly. "Those are the details I'll give you, m'lady. You would have learned them yourself before long. Everything else I know about Damon Baratheon, everything he has told me in confidence or let slip in moments of pain or happiness or lust, you will have to learn for yourself."
Without waiting to be dismissed, Bella turned and left, closing the door firmly behind. Margaery said nothing to slow her, digesting all the other woman had said.
He is hard to get to know.
He is easy to get to love.
She had not moved from that spot when, some minutes or hours later, Elinor slipped into the chamber. "My lady, we need to get you changed." Her cousin grinned at Margaery's raised eyebrow. "The king has returned."
A/N: Bella is bae.
There were a few names (cameos?) from The Dragon of Duskendale in there. I recognize a few reviewers from those days (Gtopia, Natman717, Hackslash24x7, ATP, others); hopefully you enjoyed!