Margaery III
Her father, Mace Tyrell, seated at the head of the table, chuckled at some comment Garlan had made about the day, his cup of wine sloshing slightly as he raised it to his lips.
''Well, Garlan, I daresay you'd have bested the Kingslayer today, had the sun not been in your eyes.'' Mace declared with his usual boisterous cheer.
''Perhaps, Father.'' Garlan replied good-naturedly. ''Yet I bear no shame in losing to a man as skilled as Ser Jaime. He gave me a fine fight. Besides, 'twas only a spar.''
Loras leaned back in his chair and smirked. ''Next time, I'll take him down a notch for you, brother. The Kingslayer was lucky, but his luck will run out in the melee.''
Margaery blinked, laying down her spoon on the table she had been eating from. ''The melee? I thought you had no intention of entering that.''
Now it was Garlan's time to smirk. ''Yes, I do recall you calling it 'a fool's dance for those with more brawn than sense.'''
Loras expression soured. ''I've had a change of heart.'' He said simply.
Her grandmother chuckled; such a rare thing brought all the attention to her. ''I'm sure you did. Was it the Hardyng's overweening pride, or that Dornish cur you clashed with?''
Lord Mace's eyes widened, before they narrowed dangerously. ''What dornish cur?''
''Twas not Oberyn; that insufferable goat is busy preening and posturing as if his every whim were worth a lord's ransom.'' Olenna Tyrell said simply.
Loras' eyes flickered with challenge. ''None of them were the reason; I simply changed my mind. Having an additional thirty thousand dragons in my purse does not sound like such a hardship.''
Marg suspected there was something more to it. While thirty thousand dragons were an extraordinary amount of money to win in a melee, Loras has never been the one to care for money. But she decided not to proceed further; she could always ask him later anyhow, and she was in no rush to find that out now. Yet she felt uneasy at her brothers impulsiveness; there were only days left until the melee. She wondered what strings he had pulled to even get registered so late.
The Queen of Thorns' remained unimpressed. ''Deceive yourself as you will, but entering both the melee and the tourney, out of spite, is a fool's errand. Or do you believe the wounds you'll earn in the melee will magically heal in time for the tourney?''
Loras smirked. ''Know much about swordfighting, do you?'' He asked, his tone full of irony.
''I have spent most of my life struggling to maintain this family's grasp on the Reach firm—a battle that, though a losing one, has been no less a fight. So do not test my patience, boy. One word, and I will have you shipped back to Highgarden.''
''Peace, if you would both be so kind?'' Mace said.
Loras rose from his seat before walking out of the tent. Margaery tried to call for him, but he did not seem to listen.
Mace sighed. ''Garlan, my boy. Go after him and ensure he does not find himself in any trouble.''
''Yes, Father.'' Garlan nodded before rising himself, and soon after was gone.
Margaery sighed, which immediately caught the attention of her grandmother's hard gaze. She was slightly startled by the quick way she turned her head toward her. ''And do not imagine that I am unaware of your activities.''
Margaery blinked. ''Pardon?''
Mace Tyrell sighed; it was an unusually tired one. ''We told you, specifically, to stay away from him.''
A chill ran down her spine. The candlelight flickered, casting sharp shadows over the heads of her grandmother and father. She had never felt so small. ''From whom?''
''We agreed that our family would keep a low profile, until the dust that is Renly Baratheon had settled. And yet here you are, strolling through Harrenhal with his nephew as if it were a leisurely summer day!'' Olenna's voice was sharp, each word cutting through the air.
Margaery's mind raced; she had to come up with something. She raised her hands in a disarming matter. ''Grandmother, I didn't seek him out. Truly, I didn't. We stumbled upon each other—..''
''Stumbled upon each other?'' Olenna interrupted, her voice dripping with disbelief. ''Do you think I'm a fool, girl? And here I thought you had more sense.''
Margaery felt a flush of embarrassment rise in her cheeks. ''After our first meeting, he sought me out. I couldn't very well refuse him without raising suspicion.''
''And the first meeting when you and him 'stumbled upon each other?' That was merely a coincidence, was it? Is that what you would have me believe?''
Margaery had enough; her grandmother has clearly not heard what she has during her sewing with the Queen or from other ladies over tea. ''He spends as much time, if not more, with Sansa Stark—the daughter of King Robert's esteemed friend. There are even whispers of a betrothal between them. I had to act, or risk losing the queenship I have laboured so tirelessly to secure.''
Olenna's gaze narrowed, her sharp eyes boring into Margaery's. She met her eyes, and a short battle ensued.How could she not see it?Ever since Margaery has been young enough to want anything, she wanted to be queen. She wanted it so badly. To be Good Queen Alyssane come again, and Olenna Tyrell has never been the one to spurn her from that dream; in fact, she has been the one to fuel it. She had been the one who told her to never back down when the fight gets tough. Marg eventually lost the battle of attrition, as she lowered her head to the ground.
''You were told to stay clear of him until we could be certain—absolutely certain—that our family wouldn't be implicated in Renly's death. The last thing we need is to be tangled up with the Lannisters before we're ready. Do you understand the danger you're putting us in?''
The weight of her grandmother's words sank in. She had known all those risks, of course, but the opportunity to secure her place and to win Joffrey's favour, had seemed too crucial to ignore. Especially as that witless wolf girl keeps drooling all over him. Her opportunity was rapidly deteriorating, yet they chose not to see it. ''I'm sorry.'' she said quietly.
Lord Mace smiled softly at her apology, and her grandmother's expression softened slightly, but the harsh tone in her voice remained. ''Apologies are all well and good, but it won't save us if the Queen deems us a threat. Cersei Lannister watches everything that happens here like a hawk, and if she catches so much as a whiff of our dealings with Joffrey... I need you to be smarter than this, Granddaughter. I need you to think.''
''But Sansa Stark–..''
''Stop dwelling on that girl. Even if you had managed to get the prince to win the bloody joust and crown you queen of love and beauty, it wouldn't have mattered. 'Tis King Robert who holds the final say, and he would greatly prefer Lady Sansa as queen than you.''
No... that cannot happen. That will not happen.''You can't mean it.''
''Listen to us. You must be patient, my dear. Tyrells grow strong, yet we needn't do so overnight. King Robert holds no love for us, and Queen Cersei might know of our old plans to replace her.'' Mace Tyrell said softly.
Olenna's gaze shifted to her son for a brief moment, looking at her son as if she saw him for the first time. ''At the very least, tell us you've been discreet about it.'' The Queen of Thorns said, turning her head towards Marg.
Margaery met her grandmother's gaze. ''I've been careful, grandmother.''
Olenna regarded her for a long moment, searching her face for something. Finally, she sighed. ''I believe you, but until we are certain that the Tyrell name is clear of any involvement in Renly's death, you will keep your distance. Is that understood?''
Marg nodded meekly, but she would lie if she was fully convinced. If the Queen knew of our involvement, surely she would've acted by now? But she was fighting a losing battle in their family tent, so she let it go, and decided to begrudingly follow her father and grandmother's words. She had met Prince Joffrey three times; the first time was while walking the grounds with Elinor and Desmera. She had spotted his golden hair as he disembarked his horse, surrounded by two Kingsguard knights and the wolf girl. She had immediately changed her corse towards Harenhall proper, to the puzzlement of Desmera and Elinor. Once she was on her way to pass them, Margaery curtsied, and offered a polite yet hungry smile. Their conversation had been brief and formal—but Margaery knew that she had gotten his attention, judging by the look he gave her.
After that first encounter, Joffrey had sought her out again, this time more deliberately. A message had been sent to her tent, summoning her to join him for a walk in the castle gardens. Margaery had been hesitant, yet the hunger, and the talks about him and the dull wolf girl, had won out; besides, refusing a prince's request would raise unwanted attention. She had gone, and played her part well as a sweet, demure, and attentive maiden. The third meeting had come not long after. Another request, this time for her company during the horse racing. Margaery had felt no hesitation this time, and once more, she had gone.
Prince Joffrey seemed an alright fellow, gallant and courteous. He had spoken to her of power and of what it meant to be the heir. About his father's victories and what he planned for as King. There had been a cold edge to his words, as though he relished the thought of command, of bending others to his will. Margaery had listened carefully, offering smiles and nods at the right moments. He had been charming, in his way, but she could not help but sense a cruelty beneath the surface.
She rose from her seat and excused herself before exiting the tent. Garlan had still not returned with Loras, so she decided to wonder on her own in an attempt to find him. The tent had been very warm, but she did not know if it was the air or because of how overwhelmed she felt under her father and grandmother's gazes. The cool evening air that wrapped around her provided some comfort, though. The distant sounds of the tourney still echoed faintly, though the grounds had grown quieter with nightfall. She found Garlan almost immediately, standing with his wife, Leonette, near a couple of campfires. Garlan spotted her approach and smiled warmly.
Garlan seemed to know exactly what she wanted as he nodded toward the direction of the God's Eye. ''He went that way, toward the edge of the camp. Likely needed some time alone.''
''Thank you, Garlan.'' Margaery said softly. ''Lady Leonette.''
She walked for some time. The laughter and mummers of men grew fainter, and soon enough, all she could hear was the rustle of leaves. She would've felt uneasy by the quiet, were it not for the occasional sound of a carriage going past, and the numerous torches around the area that provided her with light. She had been here before, during the day and when there were a lot more people walking around. The ground became softer,and the tents more sparse when she noticed the treeline of the God's Eye rising before her. Margaery was about to call out for Loras when something bumped into her side, almost knocking her off balance.
Her breath caught in her throat as she spun around; she stared into the eyes of a massive white direwolf. The wolf had been so quiet, that she hadn't even heard its approach. Its fur was pale as snow, and its eyes gleamed with a deep, unnatural crimson. Margaery's blood ran cold, and a wave of fear washed over her. She stepped back, but her foot caught the hem of her gown, and she tumbled to the ground with a startled gasp. The wolf loomed over her, and her heart pounded as she stared up at the beast, unable to move.
''Ghost!'' She heard a distressed call, as well as panting from a man running toward her.
For a terrifying second, she was certain the wolf would lunge and that this was her end. But the direwolf simply stood there, watching her. Then, the wolf started trotting away. Yet she still found herself unable to move. Eventually, something else was looming over her—not a wolf, but a man.
''Are you hurt, my lady?'' Jon Stark asked, with an apologetic look on his face.
The sight did not at all ease her in any way; she suppressed her cheeks from reddening in embarrassment. ''I'm fine, my lord.''
The Lord of Dragonstone reached out his hand for her to take. Still a little shaken, Margaery hesitated before accepting his help. Jon pulled her to her feet with surprising gentleness, his grip steady. ''I thank you.'' Marg said, brushing the dirt from her gown.
Jon blinked, before glancing at his direwolf that stood silently next to him, almost at his height. ''He's not as bad as he looks, I promise.'' He offered.
Margaery offered a stiff smile, still catching her breath. ''He just startled me. I didn't hear him.''
''Aye, he's always quiet; he never makes a sound. Yet at times, I get the sense he takes pleasure in sneaking up on folk, just to watch them jump.''
Marg looked down at her gown, and got slightly irritated by the dirt stains still visible on it. ''Well, he certainly succeeded tonight.''
Jon must have noticed her souring mood, because he quickly spoke. ''He still thinks he's the size of a house cat; I'm sure of it. I've tried to tell him otherwise, but you know how stubborn wolves can be.''
His jest was clumsy, but there was something about it—the unexpectedness of it, perhaps the quiet that ensued the poor joke, it did not matter, because it made Margaery laugh—a genuine laugh that surprised even her. ''I've never heard anyone call a direwolf a house cat before.''
Jon scratched the back of his wolf's neck. ''I suppose it's a hard thing to believe now.'' He smiled; it was a good-looking smile, one that made his face brighten up more than she noticed before. He should do that more often.
''No, I believe you.'' Margaery offered kindly.
Jon seemed satisfied for a moment, yet his smile slipped away soon enough. ''He truly didn't mean to scare you. So... I'd be grateful if you kept this incident quiet. I don't wish to see him locked in a cage.'' Jon said, more serious now.
''Of course.'' She offered quickly, before shifting her gaze toward the wolf in question. ''He's big. Loras told me all about it; the Stark direwolves are well-known, even in Highgarden. Yet I never thought I'd come face-to-face with one.''
Jon gave a modest shrug, though there was a glimmer of pride in his eyes. ''You're looking for your brother, I presume?''
Margaery nodded. ''Have you seen him?''
''No, I haven't. I was just returning to pick up Ghost from his hunt.''
''I see.''
A moment of silence passed between them, before Margaery cleared her throat. ''I shall keep looking then, before my family wonders where I have wandered off.''
Jon smirked as his gaze shifted to something behind her. ''You needn't look for long, my lady.''
Marg turned her head, and saw her brother walking toward them, waving.
Jon stepped aside, giving her a respectful nod. ''I'll let you both be, my lady. And again, I'm sorry about Ghost.''
''No need for apologies, my lord.'' Margaery replied, her smile returning.
It was hard for Margaery to snap her eyes from Jon Stark as he turned and began to walk toward the sea of tents, his direwolf trotting right next to him. She kept watching him even as she heard footsteps from behind her.
''Hello, dear sister.'' Loras said as Margaery felt his hand on her shoulder.
Marg's gaze finally shifted toward her brother. ''Where have you been?'' She asked.
Loras sighed softly. ''I just needed some time alone; I feel better now.'' His gaze shifted toward Jon, who was on his way to disappearing inside the tourney camp. ''What did you two discuss?'' He asked.
Margaery smirked. ''Wouldn't you like to know?'' She said playfully.
Loras' expression remained stoic. ''Very well, let us return before Father sends out a search party.''
Margaery and Loras made their way back to their camp, with Loras apologising for his outburst but still remaining committed to participating on the melee.
The days had come and gone quickly after that, and soon enough, Margaery found herself sitting in the stands, her eyes scanning a steward who announced the beginning of the melee to the bustling crowd as a deafening roar of excitement washed over her. The arena was packed, nobles and smallfolk alike craning their necks to catch sight of the spectacle that was about to begin. She sat with her family in a special box reserved for the Great Houses of Westeros; though she had brought Desmera with her, she wanted to bring Mira as well, but she had asked for leave to spend time with her family. Margaery's gaze travelled across the sea of nobles sitting in the special box. She spotted the Martells—Arianne and Quentyn—sitting as far from the rest of the nobility as possible, their dark Dornish features standing out among the crowd. Closer, she saw the Stark family. Eddard Stark sat with his children, flanked by Edmure and Lysa Tully, clutching a squirming Robert Arryn. Up at the highest point of the stands, sitting on a makeshift throne, was King Robert himself, his large frame impossible to miss. Beside him, Queen Cersei sat, a bored look on her face as she surveyed the arena. Her children, clustered nearby, held court in their own way. Margaery's heart gave an uncomfortable flutter when her eyes landed on Joffrey.
He was sitting next to Sansa Stark.
Margaery's irritation prickled inside her. Is the betrothal official? She hoped not, but seeing them side by side made her uneasy. She suppressed her eyes from narrowing when she noticed Lady Sansa giggling at something the Prince said. Her irritation must have been noticeable, however, for Olenna nudged her gently and gave her a sharp look. Without a word, the Queen of Thorns inclined her head toward the arena below, reminding Margaery of where her attention should be. Margaery nodded, forcing her gaze away from Joffrey and Sansa.
The gates of the arena opened, and a flood of knights and men-at-arms began to pour in, their armour gleaming under the sun. The crowd erupted into cheers. She eventually spotted her brother Loras, clad in his distinctive silver armour. Her heart swelled with pride, and for a moment, the irritation faded, leaving only her admiration for her brother. Walking beside him was another knight, encased in full plate armour, faceless with his closed visor, though when she got a closer look and noticed the sigil embroidered on his shield, she knew that the man was no knight.
''Who is that, walking beside Loras?'' Desmera whispered, pointing at them.
''Jon Stark, I think.'' Hobber Redwyne answered.
''I see,'' Desmera said, head tilted. ''Well, I hope Horas gets the chance to face him. He's been going on about how that one would be his greatest threat in the squires' melee.''
''I doubt that he will have the chance.'' Hobber said smugly, inclining his head toward him. He was right; she now noticed others joining Jon and Loras, seemingly talking in a circle before dispersing. She could not recall who they were, and she only managed to glimpse the white sun of House Karstark and the sigil of House Blackwood on two of the five others that had joined Loras and Jon. They have scrambled for allies. Marg was comforted by the thought. A melee of this size would last for hours, if not the whole day.
It was a different format than the great seven-sided one Lord Whent had hosted the last tourney here. There were no sides based on regions this time, though that had clearly not stopped men from forming sides of their own. Three hundred and fifty men would become fifty by the time this was all over, with the final fifty fighting in the finals two days before the tourney finals. Seeing the competition now, in her own eyes, she knew she should've told Loras more firmly not to compete. Injuries here would be borne faster than they could be mended, and riding in the joust with injuries could be dangerous. Loras, what spurred you to enter the melee so?
''Start the damned melee before I piss myself!'' Margaery heard King Robert bellow. She now noticed The Imp, who was chuckling. His small figure was now more noticeable when everyone was seated.
Right on cue, the steward's voice began to echo across the arena. ''Let the melee begin!''
Three blasts from a horn followed, the sound almost shaking the air. When the third blast had bellowed, the fighters started to move, with men crashing against each other. Margaery's heart raced as she watched her brother; ten others had joined him, before Loras and his allies clashed with fifteen others. It was chaos in an instant. Swords clanged against shields, dubbed mace's swung with brutal force, and men wrestled for dominance. Despite the blunted weapons they used, the impact of some blows sent echoes through the arena, and the crowd erupted into deafening cheers and gasps.
''Go Jon!'' She heard Bran Stark howl.
''Darkstar!'' She heard another man, a Dornishman cheer.
''Corbray! Redfort!''
''Ser Arys! Kingsguard!''
''Loras, Highgarden!'' She even heard herself cheer.
Beside her, Desmera Redwyne let out a squeal as Horas, her brother, was struck by a towering man wielding a morningstar. Horas crumpled to the ground, knocked off his feet by the force of the blow. Desmera clutched her hands to her chest, panic clear in her eyes. ''Horas!''
''He'll have a bruise, nothing more. Pipe down.'' Olenna Tyrell muttered. Margaery glanced at her family, who all bore an expression between worry and excitement. Her grandmother, sat as calmly as if she were watching a play unfold, but Margaery knew that beneath her cool exterior, even she had a flicker of concern for Loras.
Down in the arena, Loras and his allies had beaten the fifteen that were upon them. Though, shortly after, another five were on them, and when they were beaten, another ten again. Chaos continued to reign as her brother's close formation with his team had broken. Loras were still fighting gracefully, though. He parried an incoming blow, spinning out of the way of a second strike before driving his sword against his opponent's chest. The knight fell back, clutching his breastplate; the air knocked from his lungs.
Already, a dozen men were on the ground, groaning as they were helped away by squires. But Loras still stood, battered but unbowed. His silver armour had been dented, and there was a crack in his shield, but he fought on.
Suddenly, a man, charged Loras from the side, and Margaery's breath caught. He was large, nearly as tall as the man who had taken down Horas. Her heart stopped as she saw him swing a massive mace in a wide arc, aiming straight for her brother's head.
''Loras!'' She wanted to call, but the words got stuck in her throat.
Loras turned just in time, raising his shield to deflect the blow, but the force of it sent him stumbling backward, until his back hit the muddy ground. The crowd roared at the spectacle, and she could even hear the cheer from the dornish.
Jon was there in an instant, stepping in with swift, brutal strikes that knocked the mace from the man's hand. The man staggered back, disarmed, and Jon followed up with a shove that sent the man sprawling into the dirt. To the cheer of the northmen, and to the exhale from her family.
''See?'' Garlan muttered to his wife, his eyes never leaving the melee. ''He can handle himself.''
''That was no work of Loras, though it is a comfort that he has chosen some reliable allies at least.'' Olenna said sharply.
Her brother's team of ten was now a team of four. She knew that Jon Stark was one of them, though she still did not know who the Blackwood were, or who the man wearing a shield embroidered with silver chains was. She cursed herself and her stress that had made her mind blank.
''Who is that, wearing that shield with a silver chain?'' Marg asked.
Her grandmother's eyes narrowed as she tried to figure that out herself. ''It's an Umber, to be sure, though you'd have to ask the Northerners if you want to know which one.''
The melee lasted for six hours, and when the horns blew to singal the end, the crowd erupted into a deafening cheer. King Robert was grinning, while Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark looked visibly relieved that it was all over. Though Stark was clapping along with his children, his eyes were swelling with pride, as were her own father, Lord Mace's. Both Loras and Jon had made it to the final fifty, as well as that Umber. Though all of them looked worse for wear.
It was only when the fifty remaining men made their way out of the arena, and the steward announced the end of the melee and the names of those who made it to the final, that Margaery finally felt calm again. She rose, along with Desmera, and quickly made their way out of the arena to find Loras.
Desmera, still slightly shaken from Horas' fall, clung to Margaery's side as they moved through the throngs of people. ''Do you think Loras and Horas are well?'' Desmera asked, her voice full of worry.
Margaery offered her a small, reassuring smile. ''They'll be fine.''
They reached a tent outside the arena they had arranged earlier, the rose banner of House Tyrell flapping in the breeze. Inside, they found Loras sitting on a low stool, stripped of his silver armour, while a Maester attended to him. The Knight of Flowers looked exhausted but relatively unscathed, his bare front full of sweat, and a bruise already darkening on his back. Maester Tybolt was carefully applying a salve to the bruise.
''How is he?'' Margaery asked.
''Bruises, some soreness, but nothing that won't heal in time. Your brother is in fine condition, Lady Margaery.'' Maester Tybolt replied calmly.
Loras smirked, though his voice was hoarse. ''You worry too much, sister. It was nothing I couldn't handle.''
''Do you know where Horas is?'' Desmera asked quickly.
''He was here much earlier, and his injuries were the same. I told him to go and get some rest; he has presumably done so, in his own tent back at camp.'' Maester Tybolt said reassuringly.
Desmera gave her a look, and Marg replied by squizzing her hand. ''Go,'' she whispered. Desmera quickly left the tent after that.
Loras chuckled softly, though he winced slightly at the pain. ''It will take more than a brute with a mace to take me down.''
Margaery smiled warmly at him, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. ''I'll leave you to rest,'' she said, satisfied. Loras replied with a nod.
She stepped outside, content on waiting outside for her family to arrive and check on Loras. The late afternoon sun bathed the camp in golden light, casting long shadows over the rows of medical tents. Margaery took a deep breath, her body finally beginning to relax after the stress of the day.
The breath she took got stuck in her throat, when she noticed Queen Cersei, accompanied by her children and flanked by Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Jaime Lannister, and the imposing figure of Sandor Clegane. Prince Joffrey spotted her, and before she could react, Joffrey separated from his family and strode confidently toward her. His golden hair gleamed in the sunlight, and his royal red cloak swelled behind him as he approached. Her heart quickened slightly, a feeling of hope that the betrothal was not set in stone, and a feeling of dread as she saw Cersei's expression harden as her son made his way over.
Prince Joffrey stopped in front of her, and with a gallant bow, he extended his hand. ''Lady Margaery, may I have the honour of escorting you back to your tent?''
Margaery hesitated; she could feel the Queen's gaze burning into her. A thousand thoughts raced through her mind. She had been told to stay away from the prince until the dust had settled. But here he was, offering her the chance to be at his side, to be seen with him before all the nobility. For just a moment, she wondered if the path to queenship might still be open to her.
Margaery placed her hand in his. ''Of course, Your Grace. I would be honoured.'' She said, smiling softly. Joffrey's face lit up with satisfaction, his hand gripping hers with surprising force as he led her forward. All the eyes of the camp were on them as they walked together. Margaery caught a glimpse of Queen Cersei's face as she turned away sharply, her lips pressed into a thin line. Jaime Lannister followed close behind her, his expression unreadable.
As they walked, Joffrey kept his head held high. ''I hope you enjoyed the melee, Lady Margaery,'' he said with a hint of arrogance. ''Though none of the men there could truly best me.''
Margaery forced a laugh, light and sweet. ''The spectacle was most impressive, Your Grace. Yet I am certain you would have outshoned them all.''
''Well spoken, my lady.'' The prince said, with a triumphant smile.
Marg kept her smile sweet, but her mind raced. To Queen Cersei's reaction and her grandmother's word. But she couldn't very well refuse the Crown Prince in front of so many eyes. What was I supposed to do? She hoped that The Queen of Thorns would not find out; if she did, she might be shipped back to Highgarden. But not if she made her case, that she was alone, in the eyes of many nobles.
Though there was one thing that kept her smile from dropping: the prince liked her. I can make the best out of this; there is still hope—hope for my family, for my future, for a crown.
Once they arrived at her family tent, Joffrey kissed her hand and thanked for the privilege of escorting her. Margaery mummered a blush, and curtsied. Prince Joffrey and The Hound turned to leave, and it was easy for her to snap her eyes from him. She walked inside her tent, and hoped that she hadn't caused to much trouble.