King's Landing
A knock sounded on the heavy oaken door. "Enter," Margaery murmured. She knew Willas from his footsteps, stopping a few paces behind her. "What is it?" she asked, not turning her head.
"I heard you met your intended," Willas said cheerfully, a smile warming his speech.
Margaery stared at the fire in the hearth, skin prickling with warmth but failing to thaw her spirit, muttering, "Robb Stark."
"Yes, do you like him?"
"Does it matter?"
Willas sighed heavily, taking the chair beside her. "He is a good man."
"Really? You know him personally?" Willas opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by his sister, "I found him rather rude. And have heard him to be cold hearted."
"You cannot blame him, he's Northern. They're always cold!" The joke fell flat. "He will be a good husband to you." Margaery didn't answer. "And you will serve him well as his wardeness."
She shook her head, still not looking at him, "I have no ambitions to be wardeness of the north, or anywhere for that matter."
"There was a time you had ambitions to be queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Willas pointed out.
Margaery's face flushed with anger as she stood, voice clipped when she at last looked at her brother, "and I was a fool! I was a girl, I didn't know what I wanted. I knew nothing of the world other than Highgarden!" She sat hard in her chair, eyes back on the flames, "now I don't know what I want other than peace and quiet." She glared at Willas, "and to be left alone."
Her brother ignored the comment, "why did you think we came to Kings Landing?"
"I assumed Queen Daenerys sought a lady in waiting with experience at court."
"Why would she want an ex-queen amongst her ladies?"
Margaery shrugged, "power. What better way to vanquish an enemy than to make her an ally?"
"And so you shall, once you marry her brother in law." Willas paused, "cousin in law? I understand it not, but either way you will be family of the King." He bent, trying to see her face. "Robb Stark will be a good husband to you," he repeated.
"The other three weren't, why should the fourth?"
"Mayhap this time you will have a child, and you will find joy there." That comment hurt, Margaery inhaling deeply to dull the pain. He doesn't know, she reasoned. Willas never saw her bury the first little body outside Renly's camp, no bigger than her palm. Only once had Renly ever lain with her when he was drunk. The result had come and gone almost as soon as she knew it existed. Two more, Tommen's, were buried beneath yellow rose bushes in her own gardens at the Red Keep. It broke her heart to think that another woman tended to their graves now. Would Daenerys rip out the bushes, and leave their final resting place unmarked? She didn't dare wonder if they were cold beneath the frozen ground.
Willas took her silence for her agreement. "Loras once told me that you wished to marry him to Sansa Stark, that you would be sisters. Now you shall, once you marry Lord Stark."
Despite her anger and dread, the idea of her dear friend warmed her heart. Still, she wouldn't let her brother think he won, keeping her face a cool, sculpted mask. "I mislike it."
"I know."
"I shall be far from Highgarden."
"You couldn't stay there forever." The flames were beginning to shorten, wrapping themselves around the glowing orange coals rather than leaping for the chimneys. What she wouldn't give for a ship to a far off land, Braavos, Myr, the shadow lands beyond Asshai. Anywhere but north.
"When do we make for Winterfell?" she asked, not yet resigned.
"The morning after next, at first light. A feast is to be given in your honor tomorrow night by the king and queen." Not long at all, then.
"I shall begin packing tomorrow."
Willas squeezed her hand, "I shall accompany you, who else could give you away?" Who else indeed? Loras gone, Father gone. Margaery remembered the sound of the Sept of Balor erupting, the heat of the flames that burned like a thousand suns even at that distance. Margaery had remained in the queen's gardens under the silent, watchful eye of her septa. She had told the High Sparrow she wished to remain at the Red Keep, that the gods had not wished her to testify against her lord husband's mother. Desperately wishing to be alone in the gardens, kneeling in the grass in mock prayer as close to her children as she could get. Knowing that she would be leaving King's Landing soon in one way or another, she sealed and sent the message to the little old man himself. If Cersei would have her mottled and cold in a pine box bound for Highgarden, Margaery would spend as much time as she could under the wide rose petals. But it wasn't Margaery who lay beneath the silent stone of the family sept, but Tommen. Poor Tommen, who believed she had gone to the Sept of Balor and been lost with her family. Just a boy, a fool, but a sweet boy…
Then Cersei to follow her son, slain by her beloved Jaime as Drogon's shadow enveloped the Red Keep. The Kingslayer turned Queenslayer, mad with grief, had turned his sword on himself immediately after. She'd never admit it, but Margaery's heart panged for Jaime. Not able to be a true father to his children in life, forced to chase after them and his lover in death. There was a tragedy for the songs. What would the songs say of her? A black widow spider, mayhaps, devouring her lovers after marriage vows? An ambitious woman, using her body and cunning to rise in the world? There was a time in her life Margaery might have cared, but it was long over.
The next day dawned bright and cold, the sun glinting off the snow as Margaery knelt again in the queen's gardens. Taking her shears, she snipped cuttings from the twin rose bushes, frosted over in the morning cold. Queen Daenerys watched from the shadows on a balcony above, out of sight of her predecessor.
"What's she doing?" Jon asked as he slid into place beside his wife.
She shook her head, silver hair blending with the snowy vista, "I don't know." A small part of her wondered, though, the appearance of a woman mourning a child well known to her. Yet there was a chance her theory was wrong, so she kept her own counsel.
Footsteps crunched the snow behind Margaery, too heavy burdened to be Willas'. "Lady Margaery," Robb Stark said gruffly.
The lady stood, brushing half melted snow from her knees, "Lord Stark."
He nodded toward the stems, "what are those?"
"Rose cuttings."
"They'll die in the cold, will they not?"
Margaery shook her pretty head, snowflakes scattering from the long brown tresses. Robb would daresay everything about the Tyrell girl was pretty. Probably how she'd made it into the Red Keep. Heat grew in Robb's ears; his mother had raised him to think more highly of women than that. "Highgarden's golden roses have been able to withstand a thousand winters. They may not bloom in the cold, but can survive once dormant." She studied the grey twigs in her hand, Robb wasn't sure how anything living could come from them, but Lady Margaery seemed confident.
"Can they grow inside?" he asked, tucking his hands behind his back.
She nodded, "if there's enough light. I've often seen them take root in the grout between stones and grow up the walls of castles."
"Your chambers at Winterfell are the warmest, and always have a great deal of light." It was hard not to call them his mother's chambers. Even now he didn't rest easy in his father's old rooms. The space felt too cavernous for him; Ned Stark's place yawned empty everywhere he looked.
Margaery looked down, studying the snow.
"I hope…" Robb began, the thought choking in his throat, "I hope you feel welcome at Winterfell."
Her blue eyes raised ever so slightly, "thank you, Lord Stark." Awkward silence smothered the conversation, broken only by Grey Wind tossing about in the snow, paws in the air. Margaery watched him cautiously.
"He won't hurt you," Robb said.
"That's not how it sounded yesterday."
"I beg your forgiveness I…have not been myself of late." He hadn't been himself in years. Robb Stark of summer had died on the stone floor of the Twins beside his wife Talisa, Robb Stark the lord had risen in his place. Healing from the arrow heads had been nothing to the emotional bludgeoning he had taken, milk of the poppy could only dull so much. Walder Frey had thought him dead after he'd collapsed to the ground, all of the Twins shocked when a cough broke from his throat. If only old Lord Frey had ordered a man back to finish him off, Robb might have avoided the suffering that followed. Lord Frey ordered the Young Wolf healed, only to be beaten and bruised for sport. Robb waited, month after month, tortured for information that could not be pried from his grief stricken tongue. There was no pain, no agony, like losing a wife, mother and child in one cruel sweep.
Finally, with Tywin Lannister dead and moldering in the Sept of Balor, Robb struck. Watching the blood run out of old Walder from where Grey Wind had opened his throat, snout sticky with the hot liquid, should have been the justice he sought. Riding on his direwolf's back toward Castle Black should have brought the freedom he so craved. But there was nothing. Robb's heart was empty, his head crowded with memories. Shedding Frey's life's blood had not brought breath back into Talisa's lungs. Arya eradicating the rest of House Frey with poison and carving their faces did not cause their mother to walk through the heavy gate of Winterfell again. Fighting beside Jon for their home again, he thought, would set it right. But once the blood had soaked into the soil and the bodies burned or buried, Father did not ride back from the south. Jon, Sansa, Arya and Bran could all move forward. But Robb? Robb felt like a cart wheel wedged into the mud; spinning round and round, but going no where.
"Grey Wind, to me," he called gently. Flopping over, Grey Wind trotted over to his master, sitting patiently at his boots. Robb took a scrap of dried elk from his pocket and handed it to Margaery, "here."
Margaery placed it in the palm of one hand, extending it tentatively to the direwolf. Robb eyed her curiously, she stood straight and confident, face calm as she faced the beast. Quite the contrast from yesterday. "Here, Grey Wind," she said softly, studying the wolf as he drew near. Grey Wind, to his credit, sensed her concern, delicately taking the meat and chewing rather politely. He pressed his nose into her palm, stepping forward until his massive head rested against her chest, warming his nose under her cloak. She smiled, digging her fingers into his thick undercoat and scratching the base of his neck. "Good man, Grey Wind," Margaery said kindly. It felt odd to call a direwolf 'boy', like calling a warship a canoe.
Robb, for one, was stunned. Of the litter, Grey Wind had been the wariest of newcomers, even before languishing with his master in the Twins' dungeons. Always slow to relax and quick to curl his lip, but not with Margaery. Indeed, for one who thought himself higher than the average dog, Grey Wind was offering his mistress a paw. He smiled widely at Robb, eyes sparkling in question, can we keep her? "You'll spoil him rotten."
The lady smiled, "mayhaps he likes to be spoiled." She paused, fingers still tangled in fur. "My lord, may I ask a favor?"
Robb raised his eyebrows, "yes, my lady?"
"I was wondering if we may go south to Storm's End before we travel to Winterfell. I have not seen your sister since the birth of her eldest son, and know not when I would see her again once we journey north." Margaery watched Robb shift uncomfortably, but she held her ground.
"I have not seen my sister since she was wed to Lord Gendry," he commented absently. Still, Margaery waited. "Very well."
She gave him another one of her sweet smiles, though he noted they never reached her eyes, "thank you, my lord. I shall send a raven to her myself."
My dear friend Sansa-
I hope you are well, and apologize for the very short notice. I am engaged to be wed to your lord brother upon our return to Winterfell. I have asked Lord Stark if we may visit you at Storm's End before our journey north, and he has agreed. We leave on the morrow at first light, and should arrive at your door that evening. Again, I apologize, but am anxious to see you.
I remain your true friend,
Lady Margaery Tyrell
Margaery laid down her pen, heating yellow wax over the candle on the vanity, pouring it carefully and affixing her rose seal before handing it to a serving girl. "Send this to Storm's End immediately. I'm afraid it won't give Lady Baratheon much time to prepare, but something is better than nothing, I suppose." A knock sounded at the door, Margaery bidding them enter. "Loras?" she called, rising from where she sat at the vanity and sticking her head out of the private inner chamber, where Queen Daenerys stood with two Dothraki ladies maids. Margaery was suddenly aware of her appearance: her hair was freshly washed, wet and dangling loose down her back, cold stone under her bare feet as she stood in nothing more than her linen chemise. "My Queen!" she spluttered, surprised to see her there.
To her credit, the dragonborn smiled, "forgive me, I did not mean to frighten you."
Margaery shook her head, "pardon me a moment, your grace," and darted back behind the wall. Panicking slightly, she shoved her feet into a thick pair of woolen stockings, foregoing garters while throwing on a thick robe. The stockings rolled uncomfortably as Margaery yanked on slippers, hoping she was at least a bit more presentable. She straightened her shoulders, reminded herself she was lady of Highgarden, and strode calmly out of the private chamber. "Your grace," she said, curtseying low before the queen, "to what do I owe the honor of this visit?" She'd been raised well, always remembering her courtesies.
"Rise, please! Lady Tyrell, I wanted to bring you a gift," the queen gestured to the two women behind her. They fascinated Margaery, with their thick, dark, oiled hair, almond eyes and deep olive skin. She had never seen the Dothraki up close, only from a distance when Daenerys took the city. Extending their arms, Margaery took in the fine grey damask gown embroidered with a direwolf on the bodice and jeweled belt. Her fingers brushed it gingerly.
"My queen is too kind," she said softly.
"Consider it a wedding gift. Would you wear it tonight?"
Margaery nodded emphatically, "yes, thank you!" She sensed there was more the queen wanted to say, "will you stay for some tea?" Daenerys nodded, dismissing her maids as Margaery sent one of hers for tea and some cakes. They made small talk as they waited, polite and stilted conversation.
The queen waited until the doors clicked shut behind the serving girl before she began to speak her mind. "Lady Margaery, I want us to be friends. You are to marry my brother by marriage…cousin by marriage, rather." She cleared her throat, "and you were once queen."
Margaery chose her words carefully, "I did as my father commanded for the good of my house, your grace, nothing more."
Daenerys nodded. "I know you did not want this union, but I have utmost faith in my husband. He has spoken very highly of his brother-"
"Cousin, your grace?"
She sighed apologetically, "it is quite confusing, Lady Tyrell, I am not adept at family relations. Either way, Jon has spoken highly of him, and it is my understanding he will be good to you." Daenerys' skin prickled at the memory of Viserys the night she married Khal Drogo, make him happy, he'd muttered as he dug his fingers into her thigh. She reached across, taking Margaery's hand, "I would not see you wed to a man I thought would not treat you well."
Margaery was surprised by the sudden contact, but squeezed the queen's hand, "thank you, your grace. There have been many in my life who have done."
Daenerys nodded knowingly, "and in mine."
Lady Tyrell sipped her tea nervously, building courage. "My queen, you have been generous to me, certainly more than I deserve. I would ask you for one favor more."
"Name it and it's yours."
"The queen's gardens have Tyrell golden roses growing in them, in the southern corner?"
The queen waited patiently, curiously, "what of them?"
"Will you see that they are maintained?"
Daenerys furrowed her brow, "surely that isn't all?"
"Yes, well no, it…" she looked down into her teacup, taking a deep breath and facing the queen again, "two of my children are buried beneath them, born well before their time. I cannot take them to Winterfell with me, but I would know their resting place would be well cared for."
Moved, Daenerys set down her own teacup and took both of Margaery's hands in her own. "Lady Tyrell, I swear to you, your children will be well looked after. And should you decide to return in future to King's Landing with Lord Stark and your children, you are welcome to visit them at any time." Her theory from that afternoon had been correct, much as she would have wished otherwise.
Margaery blinked hard, studying the flames in the hearth. "Thank you, your grace. But I will never have more children." She turned back to the queen's violet eyes, "Three marriages, three children, all gone long before they drew breath. I cannot carry a child to term, I never have more than three or four moon turns. Those in the garden are all I have."
Daenerys closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. "My heart breaks for you, truly. Before Aegon and Lyanna, I had a child with my first husband who was stillborn. I called him Rhaego and cremated him with his father." She paused, it was a long time since she told this story. "The witch who took them both from me said I would never bear children again." Daenerys smiled softly, "and now I have Aegon and Lyanna, who I love with every fiber of my being. They don't replace Rhaego, no one ever could. What I'm trying, and failing I fear, to say is not to give up hope. Take it from one who knows."
Lady Tyrell squeezed the queen's hand in return, surprised by the sudden vulnerability, "thank you, your grace."
The queen stood abruptly, almost upsetting her teacup. It seemed she had surprised herself as well. "I should leave you to prepare for this evening. Thank you for your company, and the refreshment." No sooner had Margaery curtseyed than Daenerys was out the door, swiping at her eyes with her thumb before anyone could see. The feast was merry, but awkward for the intended couple. Though they sat beside each other, they exchanged nary a word, focusing rather on the trenchers in front of them or the revelry around them. Any where but at one another. That night in the dark, the beautiful dress packed away with Margaery's other things, the lady stared at the canopy. She had had several unhappy marriages, why should this one be any different?