Margaery

The Rose of Highgarden had not wept into her embroidery for the loss of her brother's lover.

That didn't stop her from summoning tears to her eyes when she saw him.

The memory of Loras going away to squire was, ironically, one of her most used for such purposes. They'd been as close as twins, despite his being nearly a year older, and she had been inconsolable when he left her behind. His decision to do it again when Renly broke the betrothal was a fresher wellspring of sorrow, but she was careful not to let the accompanying anger show.

As she glided across the field to approach 'King' Renly's dias, her father leading her at the head of an appropriate delegation, Margaery gave him only the face of a heartbroken young maiden. Her greeting to him was shy but strong, with just a hint of a warble in her throat. Strength enough to show the pride of her family, but not enough to risk his caution when they were so far from the allies that they might have been.

At her side her father was making absolutely no attempt to hide his fury, and his glare only left the Baratheon to dart around in search of his queen.

There was no sign of the woman for whom Renly had insulted them so gravely. He sat alone on the platform and when they had approached the fields where he called for the meeting, their host of some two thousand had been met with a mere few hundred to protect their king. Margaery had only enough training in the military arts to spot idiocy when it was brewing, but meeting a potential enemy with so little to protect him was either the very definition of that, or a sign of something hidden.

No matter how lovestruck he might be, she could not imagine her brother would have such regard for an idiot. So she took note of the confidence with which Renly sat on his elevated stage. His smile did not budge even with ranks of Tyrell knights and freeriders facing down his own forces, and she began to feel a thrill of fear.

She did not let it show, nor did she risk another glance at her father. Not that she needed one. Mace Tyrell had spoken loudly of his confidence in his forces as they approached the meeting place and she knew he would not be so easily shaken from that feeling. So she drew strength from his steady hand on her arm and hoped he wouldn't allow his anger to drive him to say anything too undiplomatic.

While she did certainly not agree with her grandmother's assessment of father -she'd spent far too long learning her figures from him for that- Margaery had to admit that he was not skilled at hiding his feelings. Nor was he well disposed to Baratheons in general, and those that he felt jilted by in particular.

Still, he was the head of a great house, Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Mander and all the other titles along with those. Despite her fears her father held his tongue and kept to a bow on the bare edge of what was required before a king, as she gave her own courtesy at his side.

Renly's smile finally faltered then, and something she thought might have been shame flickered behind it. He was the first one to speak, to her well-masked satisfaction.

"You do me an honour my lord, and all the more so for the insult I have given you." His eyes went to her and she had to fight back a twitch at the corner of her lip when she saw that flash of shame again. "None more than you my lady. To have jilted such a beauty would make me the butt of every fool and guarantee me a most ignoble role in the songs that will be sung of Highgarden's finest rose."

Clumsy flattery, but it did salve the wound in her pride. She was not above admitting it to herself. Still, after such words she was not surprised when he rose and followed them with-

"Except, had I not taken Brienne for my queen, the gods themselves would have descended to judge me. Caught between the censor of mortals and gods as I was, I only hope you can forgive me."

The sense of fear, that something was hidden and fast approaching, crept up her spine like ivy on oak. Then, as her father was drawing up for his usual response to cryptic words he did not understand, the air shook with a boom so deep and thunderous that Margaery thought she had not heard it so much as she felt it in her bones.

Renly's eyes were to the south, across a field that his men had left strangely empty, but which was divided from their own approach by a stream just wide enough that no rider had chanced it.

As they approached Margaery had thought it was simply his attempt to position himself so he could not be flanked on that side. When she followed his gaze, she began to see the truth.

Because a mountain had risen to the south, where there had only been forest before.

It had to be a mile distant, and yet, as she kept her eyes on it, Margaery realised it was no mountain but a statue. A vast statue of a knight, sword and shield at their side and back straight and proud. A statue that…seemed to…be…moving…

More than a decade at the knee of the Queen of Thorns, and still she felt her composure shatter like cheap clay. Her mouth hung open. Her eyes were wide. And there was no hope that she could do anything else.

The boom of each footstep was nothing compared to what she now knew for its voice, but the way they shook the ground terrified her like nothing else ever had.

It had been so far away, but in moments it was leaving the forest behind and treading on the fields Renly had left clear. Like the Hightower itself was coming towards them. Like they would be crushed in moments, and only a shallow patch of gore would be left of them.

Yet, despite the terror, Margaery had to admire the beauty of it too. For she had always adorned beautiful things, as a Rose of Highgarden should, and the towering knight was a work of art.

Its armour was stone, but great crystals of sapphire decorated that armour with enough wealth to beggar kingdoms. The plates were vast plains of rock, but with each booming step she could better make out the intricacy of each joint, and appreciate them as any daughter of chivalry could recognise the craftsmanship -and value- of a fine suit of armour.

The sword and shield that hung to either side of its enormous belted skirt of plates were equally gorgeous things, with a mere glimpse of sapphire at the hilt of that sword giving away that rock was only the sheath there.

The helm was already becoming hard to see as it came closer, but she still saw the great plume of blonde hair that fanned out from the back of it, and the eyes that glowed such a clear and pure blue that she abandoned any thought that this was just some fell thing summoned from the earth.

It was alive, and intelligent, and by the faint hints of shape to its armour -not to mention the length of its plate skirt, hanging past its knees as it did- she had a rising suspicion as to the answer to several mysteries.

It was also so vast that no castle could hope to stop it, even if all it did was walk forward that would be enough to lay waste to any fortification in the world. If it wielded its weapons then it would be the death of armies and the end of kingdoms.

So when her father stirred from his stupor and tugged at her arm with the faint strength of a man who knew it was pointless, Margaery Tyrell stood her ground and held her head high.

If this was the die she died, she would meet the Stranger with the dignity she owed her house and their people.

She still had to stifle a sigh of relief when the knight dropped to one knee a few strides short of crushing them all. Belatedly she realised that their escort, all two thousand of them, had been thrown into chaos by its approach. Her father wheeled about to try and shout them into order, but she kept watching with rapt attention.

The knight extended one hand out towards Renly, as though a mountain was offering him fealty, until the tips of its fingers seemed to gently brush the edge of the stage.

The way the planks splintered beneath that touch renewed her fear, but Renly did not flinch and so she did not allow herself to either.

Though she could not help her wonder when a deep blue gemstone the height of a man emerged from the tip of one of those enormous fingers. Like a splinter from flesh, though it emerged without a drop of blood, and as it left the knight shuddered and slackened and its eyes dimmed to nothing.

The collapse of such a thing would have been a disaster, but it was already dispersing into light and dust as it began to fall. In a few heartbeats it was already gone, but for twin mounds of earth, both with the rich colour of fertile soil and a slight glitter even at a distance, that remained where its sword and shield had been. Though neither could have even a tithe of the mass of those tools, Margaery had a strange certainty that they were what remained of them and she filed the knowledge away with care.

Her attention returned to the man-sized sapphire when it began to crack and then shattered in a spray of more light and dust. Wealth vanishing and leaving behind what could only be a Queen.

Not a Queen as the Seven Kingdoms had known them, but as she thought that Age of Heroes must have. As the warrior queens of a forgotten age had stood, so did Brienne of Tarth, for all that she did it in an ill-fitting dress and a knight's boots. Then she glanced aside at the Tyrell delegation and the warrior shrunk beneath a tall and homely girl who sent pity lancing through Margaery's heart.

King Renly stood at her side and looked down on them with a confidence that she finally understood.

Margaery had to admire her father for how his voice stayed steady as he invited the King to treat with them at Ashford Castle. Nor could she blame him for how his hand trembled on her arm.

That night, the ravens went out with news that would shake the world. A god had risen from the earth, and she wore a crown.

When next they saw the King and Queen, upon the morrow, it was with all the pomp and finery of a true royal feast.

King Renly had brought three times more servants than knights and men-at-arms put together, and a baggage train rich enough that even such revelry would not sore press the Ashfords.

Of course they brought much the same volume of supplies, as wealthy liege lords and ones who could ill afford to anger their bannermen, so the Ashford family was not troubled at all by the feast.

As she wove through those in attendance, cousin Elinor close at her side, Margaery thought that she spied at least one person who was very much troubled by it.

Her father had wasted no time in seeking out King Renly, and the two of them had left for a side room that they might talk without being overheard, other than by a few guards each and a steady stream of servants bearing trays.

Their attempts at intrigue had left Queen Brienne alone at the high table. Picking at her food as though she were a troubled young girl and not the source of Margaery's restless night and sweat soaked sheets.

Just the sight of her put her back in those nightmares. Highgarden lost beneath a single massive boot. Her family crushed like insects and forgotten. Her people left starving in a land made barren by the passage of the Titan.

The fear had had time to fester and ferment, and it roiled in her guts and put lead in her legs. Her hands wanted to tremble and her eyes longed to skitter away to the other side of the room. She was afraid. Desperately afraid.

So she stepped forward, and called up all the sympathy she had felt when she first saw Lady Brienne beneath the armour of the Titan Queen. She allowed the sight of the taller woman to deepen that feeling, and the little she knew of her to do the same.

Her finery suited her little, though she was draped in plenty of it, and her face was more brutish than handsome, but Margaery recalled the start of the feast rather than dismissing her as ugly. A light had brightened her eyes as she took the hand Renly offered her and went to his side to call a start to the festivities and Margaery had thought in that moment that Brienne looked like the Maiden made flesh.

Renly's eyes had held no trace of a matching devotion, but she had expected that. Even the vague kindness that he looked at his queen with was a surprise to Margaery, and she was glad to see that much. She was glad that there was some chance of happiness before this woman so clearly in love with her King, and she let that gladness fill her as she stepped forward to offer a courtesy.

"Your grace. You look well on this day, though perhaps not so striking as you did yesterday."

The slight flinch at the royal address was subtle, but the way Queen Brienne's shoulders rose at mention of her appearance was not. If nothing else Margaery loathed to see such a vulnerability in a woman who had struck her as everything that chivalry promised and too often failed to be.

That feeling demanded action.

"Your dress however, is a tragedy." She misliked such a lack of subtlety, but it was obvious that anything less blunt would not avail her.

Elinor shook at her side, and she saw the beginning of rage in the Queen, the kind that everyone wore to protect themselves from cruel words.

Since she had no cruelty in mind, Margaery did not fear it, and struck again before it could take root.

"The skill of your tailors is clear, but they have placed a sapphire on display as though it were a bouquet of flowers. How could such a thing hope to show your beauty to the world?"

The anger was replaced by a weary crease in the young skin of the Queen's brow, and again Margaery knew she had bare instants to strike the opening before it closed and Brienne's impression of her was fixed ever falsely. Again, she did not hesitate.

"Oh, I'm sure idiot boys threw that word at you, your grace, but you must forgive the lesser sex their foolishness, or so my grandmother likes to say. Though I suppose now they do it with a different kind of falseness?"

The Queen was relaxing now, and poor Elinor Tyrell along with her. She had the start of a smile tweaking her lips as she admitted, "I have heard more compliments in the last three sennights then in all my years before them. Yet as one trained as a knight, I know better than to hide from unpleasant truths." Margaery doubted that, but it did not incense her like Brienne's next words did. "I am no beauty."

"Nonsense!" She remembered herself only after the word burst from her lips. "Your grace."

Brienne was looking at her like she was a child of the forest now, dancing out of the night with riddles spilling from her lips.

"All true children of the gods are beautiful, your grace. It is only a question of how easily that beauty can be seen." She gestured to where a dress in the style favoured in the -relatively- cold and wet Stormlands was far too tight around the other woman's shoulders. "I would certainly recommend your tailors to flatter your shoulders instead of trying to hide such glory from the world. Your back should be emphasised as well. A knight's training would explain why you have such a gorgeous build, and together with your height there are several styles of the Reach that…" She let the thought trail off, as much for honest enjoyment of it as for effect.

A faint flush rose on Brienne's face and Margaery leaned in, the other woman mirroring it instinctively, and let her whisper. "I have, um, hair-"

She raised a hand to quell her, then used it to stretch the skin between her nose and lip. Once Brienne's eyes darted down to it she let go and whispered back, "As do I, your grace."

In truth they were very fine things, and she had to pluck them only once or twice a year, but it was no lie. Even a rose so blessed as she still needed to be pruned and cared for.

Though, having bathed alongside her grandmother and seen paintings of Olenna Redwyne in her youth, she had no illusions that such ease would last forever. Such was the lot of noble ladies.

According to their intelligence, gathered since they learned of how a noble lady from the generally insignificant Isle of Tarth had found her way under a crown, the Lady of Tarth had died in childbirth. Margaery watched the dawning light in Brienne's eyes and wondered if she had ever had a woman she could talk to about such things, or just some sour Septa who told her to be glad she did not attract the wrong sort of attention.

She resolved to see one of her cousins -perhaps Alla, though she would miss her harp and songs- ensconced as handmaid to the Titan Queen, with firm instructions to keep that light shining. Even the most foolish man would see her for what she was with that brightness looking back at them.

"Well, thank you, my lady…but I'm afraid no dress will hide my face."

"Of course not." She shot back with a conspiratorial smile. "Veils are a luxury for those on the other side of the Narrow Sea. We must make do with makeup."

"Tarth is too…"

She watched as the realisation hit Brienne, that she was no longer limited to what a noble house with lands but little wealth could provide. Though she doubted the Lord of Evenfall Hall would have denied his daughter such a thing if she had asked, and felt another pulse of aggravation at Renly that he had not better prepared his queen.

"With the right handmaid to apply it, they will sing of your beauty at court." She smiled another sly grin, letting it invite Brienne to lean in again. "Though you could always save yourself the trouble, for what lord would dare to demand it of you when he fears you might crush him for the temerity?"

She let her smile and delivery carry the joke, and was delighted by the laugh it startled out of Brienne. Her laugh was certainly handsome, and Margaery was glad to hear it.

Before the moment could fade she asked if she might join the Queen at the high table, and she passed the rest of the feast enjoying the choicest bits of the food and discussing -at one point sketching in gravy on a trencher of bread- possible ideas for dresses and other decorations.

Brienne was a wonderful woman, and Margaery found herself admiring her kindness and nobility more and more the longer that they talked. Eventually she even managed to draw Brienne to chat with Elinor just as freely, and the two of them found a ready topic in their shared love of horse riding.

But no good thing could last forever, and as the night drew on her father and King Renly returned to the hall. Now with her brother at last revealed before them, and on cheerful terms with their father despite how he had abandoned their family to stay at Renly's side, or so did it appear. She would grant that a jovial air was the one disguise father could wear successfully, though she also knew how much he adored his son the Knight of Flowers.

Their father loved all four of his children and none of them had ever doubted that, but it was Loras who had fulfilled his dream of a widely acclaimed knight for a son.

Her failure to become a queen weighed a little heavier at that thought.

As her newfound friendship weared on her at the sight of Renly and Loras standing close enough for them to lay frequent 'comradely' touches upon each others' shoulders and sides.

She glanced at Brienne and found that her smile had not dimmed, but there was something in her eyes that even she could not read, and felt a little sick when she looked back to her dear brother.

For all the words they had thrown at one another through the years, fighting as only close siblings could, Margaery had never thought him capable of cruelty before.

In another family, when they rode away the next day -returning to Highgarden after giving the appropriate courtesies and sending ravens from Ashford to ensure all the family gathered the same- Margaery would have likely learned nothing of the plan her father had made. Had she been lucky a noble daughter would have been praised for striking up such a bond that the Queen bade her farewell personally and sincerely, and that would have been the end of her involvement.

Mace Tyrell however had been raised by Olenna, the Queen of the Thorns, and knew better than to waste half the minds at his disposal.

So she learned all about what had been agreed, and thought once again that her grandmother did not give her father enough credit. Especially his head for logistics and numbers.

She was also pleased to salve her mild fear that her father might offer her to Renly as a second bride, since the days of conqueror had clearly come again.

All that had been offered was an alliance of oaths, to be formalised later, and a promise of betrothals between the next generation of both their houses should the gods allow it. In exchange they would send a host of twenty five thousand to serve at Renly's pleasure, and supply his forces as only the wealth of the Reach could, while also formalising the cessation of trade on the roseroad.

It was a bitter thought, considering what that would mean for the Crownlands and most of all for King's Landing…but such was war.

Which was also reason enough for her to break some of Brienne's confidence. Not for anything so crass as secrets shared between women, but the passing mention of how exhausted she was by the use of her immense power, that she told her father without hesitation.

He was glad to hear it, and she understood why. Such a power could be nothing more than the hand of the gods, and she knew from the whispers her companions brought her that much idle talk about the travelling host was about just which of the Seven had bestowed their might upon Renly's Queen. Knowing she could not wield it freely was a welcome sign that she was still more mortal than divine.

It also further explained why Renly cared about securing their forces in the first place, if he needed men not just to secure the places the Titan was not, but where she might need to lay her head for an extended period.

And when they stopped at Cider Hall on the morning of their third day of travel, it blunted the horror of the news from the North, and King's Landing, and even Oldtown.

It was not just Brienne. Robb Stark, and three foreigners, and who knew who else?

They left as much of the host as they could and rode for Highgarden with unseemly haste.

When they arrived after two days of hard riding they had hardly exchanged greetings when the news arrived that King Joffrey had joined the other God-Touched, and House Tyrell found itself gathered in the Lord's solar without even a chance to freshen up.

Loras had come with them, though he had mainly ridden far from where he might have to exchange words with his father away from outside eyes, and he and Garlan both took the opportunity to note the ripeness of the Rose's scent.

The jest had the air of despair about it, and she did not rise to it as she might have normally. There were more important things than a delayed bath afoot.

Though she did appreciate Willas wryly noting that the Knight of Flowers didn't smell of them either. She made sure to bring him over a honeycake from where the snacks had been laid out on the room's great desk. Her eldest brother was unlikely to trouble himself to limp across the room for mere food, and he already had a book ready to hand.

It was the arrival of mother and grandmother that marked the meeting's beginning, and while her mother was quick to bustle across to where Loras stood like a rabbit beneath the hawk, it was Olenna Tyrell who had her two burly guards drop armfuls of scrolls on the desk and then shooed them outside to seal the doors and 'discourage' any listeners.

Only then did she draw herself up from the stoop she liked to affect, and stand at the centre of the room like she was about to issue commands to her troops.

"We need one." Was how she began. "If not in the family, then tied to it. As soon as possible."

Nobody disagreed.

Though Margaery knew at once what those words meant for her, unless they were lucky enough to find another woman unattached and loyal enough to House Tyrell not to take the opportunity to conquer the Reach for her own family. Since that was unlikely enough to be absurd, the obvious means of tying a God-Touched to them was her hand and her womb with it.

"The Foreigners? This House Rosfield would seem ideal?" Willas posed it as though asking a question of the air, and though she knew it was his habit to encourage them to think through what he doubtless already was, she still wanted to snap at him a little.

Instead she turned to where grandmother was already shaking her head and mother was stroking her long silver braid where it lay over one shoulder.

It was her mother who spoke, "Despite our advantage, nothing has come of their time in Oldtown. My father even descended the Hightower to entreat them directly, but-"

"We gained a great deal of information that the wider realm did not, but what Alerie is taking far too long to say is that they refused the offer of your hand. Politely, but firmly."

Her mother hardly seemed to notice the sharpness of her goodmother's tongue -the fruit of long experience, Margaery was sure- and continued mildly.

"Lord Clive Rosfield, Touched by Ifrit of the Fire, is married and most devoted to Lady Jill Rosfield, once of House Warrick, who is Touched by Shiva of the Ice. The Phoenix they speak of is held by Lord Clive's younger brother, Joshua, but for reasons that were not clear in my father's letter it is the younger brother who is head of their house and he will hear nothing of any marriage offers."

"Perhaps that is a ruse? The younger brother inheriting is passing strange." blustered her father, even as Margaery was taken by the brief thought of marriage to the foreign lord with the equally foreign name, and a more solid thought of the foreigners' foolishness in being so concerned about making enemies that they ignored opportunities to make friends.

"Don't be a fool Mace. Ruse or not, they have refused the offer, and I'll note that they referred to the Phoenix's wings, according to Leyton's letter, and their crest is clearly a bird. Honestly, the rest is not hard to decipher."

With none of the confidence he showed the world, the Lord Paramount of the Mander subsided beneath his mother's withering gaze. Then he perked up, "Still, we should be sure to take advantage of this Lady Vivian's continued presence in Oldtown." Then his eyes went to Willas and the path of his thoughts became clear.

Including to their object, who arched a brow and said, "I'll not deny the appeal of a fellow scholar father, and grandfather's letter makes note of her beauty and wit, but perhaps we are drifting off track? Such a connection would be secondhand at best. Though we should certainly ensure she is well appreciated at the Citadel."

In a family that had been taught from youth exactly how foolish the Citadel's policy on women scholars was, the thought was not a hard one to follow.

Her mother was quick to say, "I'll mention that in my next letter to father. We should be sure she finds a warm welcome in our lands, and take the opportunity-"

This time Margaery had to admit grandmother was probably right to shush her gooddaughter. Her mother could go on at some length at times, and they had little and less of that to spare.

She spoke up for the first time. "If not this Joshua, then there are only two options before us. Robb Stark or Joffrey Baratheon."

It was not lost on her that she would be a queen either way. The thought certainly did thrill her, but it was tempered by a sudden sense, in her bones and the stone beneath her and the very roots of the earth itself, that she was on the cusp of a decision that would shape the rest of her life. Delight or despair. She knew -she knew not how but she knew- that this would lead her to one or the other.

Then Loras interrupted and the feeling was gone.

"Why do we need to break our word to King Renly? Why are we even considering…it…" He trailed off beneath the gazes of his entire family. Even her mother had a dark look on her face, and her father's usual pride for his famed son was marred by something close to pity.

Olenna Tyrell spoke, and she was truly merciless. "I'm sure you and Renly have a lot of fun giving horns to the Titan of Tarth, but no amount of it will get a babe on either one of you Loras."

Loras' proclivities were neither secret nor shame amongst their family. In truth the Reach as a whole was little inclined to listen to the Faith regarding notions that had been widespread since the days of Garth Greenhand, no matter how the rest of the Seven Kingdoms might feel about men and women laying with their own kind.

Still, it was a lot more open a statement of his habits than had ever been made before the whole family. Certainly Margaery would have been humiliated by similar discussion of what had once passed between her and sweet Alys, though that too was no true secret given how she had needed her mother's help to ensure the maid found a marriage such as she deserved, and which kept temptation far away until her feelings had cooled enough for rationality to return.

Loras' eyes had certainly found their mother quickly enough as his face reddened. Yet she thought it was more than just humiliation in his eyes.

It was also, she thought, that he had not thought of what he was doing to Brienne in quite those terms. Else he would not be so uncomfortable with the shame of it.

"We, we're not…it's not…"

"Not cuckolding her, my dear brother?" Margaery asked. "Women may not be given even the dignity of horns, but suffering silently does not make a woman suffer less."

"More importantly," her grandmother cut in, "men grow horns while women suffer silently because like it as not it is men who hold the power in this world." With those words she walked closer to Loras, until she seemed to loom over him despite how much shorter she was. "Do you imagine it is Renly who has the power, or his queen? How much mind do you think anyone would pay that silly crown of his without her at his side?"

Loras looked lost and small, and ashamed.

The sight of him suffering made Margaery imagine herself in her place and how she would feel. It was a habit of hers, and especially with her dearest brother.

She thought of the childish kissing games she had once played with her favourite stableboy. Imagined if it had been those feelings that deepened into youthful madness and not what she had shared with Alys, with none of the safety that lay with another woman. Imagined if she had betrayed her house for the sake of her flesh.

She felt sick, and she was at Loras' side a moment later.

There was reproach in her mother's voice when she said, "Renly clearly has no intention to be faithful, and no interest in women at all." The words had an authority that suggested she had learned things from Loras that the rest of them had not. They also spoke to the reality of the situation, though her father still felt the need to give voice to what they all knew.

"If someone is sure to warm his bed, best it be a Tyrell, hm?" He actually sounded proud of his son as he said it, and Margaery felt a rush of affection for her father, and even more so when he followed up by muttering about getting one over on the Baratheons.

There was something akin to regret in her grandmother's next words. "Be careful that the blame falls on him, should it fall. Otherwise your father is right. But so am I. There's no sure alliance there, and we need one."

Garlan, who had stayed silent and thoughtful, finally spoke up. "Surely Joffrey is no option at all though? Loose as the ties might be, we're still tied to Renly, who holds him to be bastard born and by incest at that. Their claims to the Seven Kingdoms compete, to say nothing of Robb Stark's secession."

"Seven Kingdoms? You're not that blind brother." said Willas. "The Seven Kingdoms were done the moment a second God-Touched appeared on these shores."

Garlan didn't disagree, but he inclined his head to encourage his brother to continue.

"The Dragons forged the Seven Kingdoms with dragons. True enough. Yet the deeper truth is that it was because they alone had dragons that the kingdoms could be forged together. Now we face a new kind of might, and one not held by any single family, nor likely to be consolidated."

He didn't trouble himself to conclude the argument, but they could all hear the words he did not speak. Margaery herself had known it and she was sure most of her family had too, but speaking the words aloud had a weight to it.

The old age was over, and as was the way of birth, the new age was not going to be born without blood and pain.

So again came the question.

Joffrey, and an attempt to forge peace between Baratheon and 'Baratheon'?

Robb, and an attempt to midwife the rebirth of an independent North?

Either side would welcome their troops, and she was a tempting prize for any man.

But again came that sense of doom looming in one of the options before her, and Margaery found she could not make it resolve into a clear sense of which. So she argued instead. Taking one side and then the other, back and forth until finally, her father intruded into discussion between her and Willas and Garlan with a far more practical concern than the war they had been talking about.

Which of them could they be most sure they could convince, and quickly?

That, at last, made the decision.

So the raven was sent, followed by others, and Margaery was able to bathe and refresh herself at long, long, last.

The next morning they would send her on her way, Garlan at his side and his wife soon to join them as they gathered a host of fifty thousand and made for her new husband's side.

Of course once they got there it would be on her to ensure he fell for her charms.

She tossed her head back in the bath with a laugh.

At least some portion of this would be easy.