Margaery I
Margaery awoke in her tent, her eyes fluttering open to the dim light of dawn filtering through the fabric. The air around her felt thick and oppressive, as if it were charged with the weight of all that had happened. It had been two days since Renly's sudden death—two days since her world had been upended.
The camp around her, once lively and buzzing with the confidence of Renly's supporters, had fallen into uneasy silence. The atmosphere was heavy with uncertainty and fear, whispers of dark magic and treachery filling the spaces between the tents.
The news of Renly's death had spread like wildfire, and with it came a mass exodus of the lords who had sworn fealty to him. One by one, the banners of Houses once loyal to the Baratheon cause disappeared, taking their men and their hopes with them. Most had turned to Stannis, eager to back the Baratheon who still stood. Only a few remained—the Houses sworn to Tyrell—House Hightower, Tarly, and Rowan, along with their bannermen. But even they had grown restless in the last forty-eight hours, their loyalty tested, their patience fraying at the edges.
Margaery could feel their eyes on her when she moved through the camp. They were waiting for something, for her to make a decision, to show them that she had a plan. They wanted answers. They wanted assurance that their loyalty hadn't been misplaced. And so far, she had given them none.
Pulling herself from her bed, she felt the coolness of the early morning air brush against her skin, and with it came a sense of urgency. She could no longer afford the luxury of mourning. Renly's death was more than just the end of their alliance—it was a signal that the game had changed, and she needed to position herself accordingly.
Her maid slipped quietly into the tent, she didn't greet Margaery, nor did she offer any words of comfort as she began the familiar task of braiding her hair. Silence had become the default between Margaery and most of those around her. In the wake of Renly's death, people simply didn't know what to say—so many chose to say nothing at all. The air was thick with unspoken words and unshed tears, the weight of it pressing down on her more than any conversation could.
Margaery watched in silence as her maid sifted through the gowns hanging by the side of the tent, fingers brushing over the vibrant greens and golds of Highgarden—colours that once symbolised life, growth, and power. Now, they felt foreign, out of place amidst the grief that had settled over the camp like a heavy fog. The maid barely spared them a glance before settling on a simple black gown, the fabric draped across her arm like a shadow.
This was to be her uniform for the coming weeks—the black of the widow's shroud. The vibrant silks of her past life seemed like relics of another world, one where she was Renly's queen and the future looked bright. Now, the future felt uncertain, and the mourning garb only served to remind her of that uncertainty. This was her new role, at least for a time: the grieving widow, draped in sorrow, while the realm around her teetered on the edge of chaos.
Stepping outside, she was immediately greeted by the sight of her bannermen gathered in small groups, their voices low but urgent. The tension in the air was palpable, their faces drawn with worry and impatience. They looked to her with expectation, their eyes silently demanding guidance.
Lord Randyll Tarly approached Margaery with the heavy, measured steps of a man who had had very little patience remaining. His face was as stern as ever, but there was an unmistakable edge of frustration in his eyes. The weight of his discontent was palpable even before he spoke.
"Your Grace," he began, his voice deep and respectful, though firm. "The men are growing restless. They wish to know what the next step is—where we will turn now that Renly is... gone."
Margaery met his gaze steadily, her face composed, though beneath it all a storm of thoughts swirled. She understood the urgency; the men needed leadership, direction. But she also knew the importance of ceremony, of appearance, and of maintaining the image of control in a time where so much had been lost.
"Lord Tarly," she said, her voice calm but pointed, "I am on my way to bid my final farewell to my husband, your King." She held his gaze, making it clear that Renly's death, though a bitter reality, was still a wound that demanded acknowledgment, even from a hardened man like Tarly. "I will be happy to discuss our plans after I have paid my respects. You should think to do the same."
Her words lingered in the air, both a reminder and a rebuke. Tarly, for all his sternness, was a man of duty, and Margaery knew that he would understand. Renly's death was not just a matter of political consequence—it was the end of a life, the end of a claim to the throne that many had pledged themselves to.
Tarly stiffened, his face softening just slightly as he bowed his head. "Of course, Your Grace," he replied, his tone more subdued now, though his frustration was not entirely quelled.
As Lord Tarly walked away, Margaery stood there for a moment, letting the tension roll off her shoulders. She straightened her back and exhaled softly, bracing herself for the day ahead. It was a day meant for mourning, but decisions had to be made. Decisions that could mean the difference between life and death for her family—and for their future in the realm.
With a final glance around the camp, she turned and made her way toward the large tent where Renly's body still lay in state. As she walked, the eyes of soldiers and lords followed her, their curiosity and uncertainty evident. They whispered amongst themselves, some mourning, some restless, some already looking ahead to who would hold power now that their king was gone.
The entrance to the tent was guarded, and the men at the door stepped aside as she approached, lowering their heads in respect. Inside, the world was quieter, almost solemn. The flickering light of a few scattered candles cast long shadows over the room, their dim glow barely enough to hold back the darkness. There, in the centre, was Renly's body—wrapped in the finest cloth of gold and yellow, the Baratheon sigil embroidered into the fabric. He looked almost peaceful, as if he were merely sleeping.
She stood before him, her hands clasped together as she gazed down at the man she had called her husband. Renly had never been hers, not truly. He had been a king, a political ally, and a friend. But not her love. Not like that. Yet, standing there, she felt a strange sense of loss.
Her eyes then fell upon the two figures already inside. Her brother Loras and Robb Stark. The air inside was thick with the weight of grief.
Loras was knelt beside Renly's body, his shoulders slumped and his face ashen, drained of its usual vibrancy. The devastating grief had hollowed out his handsome features, leaving him a shadow of the man he had once been. His hand trembled as he reached out, fingers hovering just above the rich fabric that draped Renly's still chest, as though he couldn't quite bring himself to touch him. The King who had once been full of life, full of ambition and charm, was now a lifeless form swathed in cloth of gold and green.
"Loras..." Margaery whispered, her voice soft yet filled with an unspoken sorrow. She could see the battle waging within him—his pride as a knight clashing with his raw, personal pain. He had loved Renly, more deeply than anyone ever would or could understand. Now, he was faced with the cruel reality that no sword could defend against death, no matter how noble the heart behind it.
Loras didn't look up. His gaze remained fixed on Renly, his lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but no words came. He just knelt there, frozen in a moment he could not escape.
In the far corner of the tent, Robb Stark stood silently, his figure a dark silhouette against the faint glow of the candles. His face was set, a mask of stoic calm, but there was something more beneath the surface—a sense of duty, of unresolved inner conflict. Margaery had heard whispers in the camp that Robb hadn't left the tent for hours, refusing offers of rest.
Margaery's eyes drifted toward Robb, her brow creasing in thought. What kept him here? Was it respect for the fallen king, or perhaps guilt? Or was it something deeper, an understanding that his own fate might one day mirror Renly's? As he stood quietly, watching her by Renly's side, she wondered if, he saw Roslin standing over his own lifeless body.
The silence hung heavily between them, thick and suffocating. Margaery stepped closer to her brother, her black gown whispering against the floor as she moved. She could feel the weight of Robb's gaze on her, though he said nothing, merely observing, as though waiting for her to make the first move, to break the fragile peace that had settled over the scene.
"Loras," she said again, more firmly this time, though her voice was still gentle. She knelt beside him, her hand lightly touching his shoulder. The contact seemed to shake him from his trance, his head slowly turning to meet her eyes. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot and full of a deep, aching sorrow that she knew no words could heal.
"He's gone, Margaery," Loras whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of those simple words. "I couldn't... I couldn't save him."
She squeezed his shoulder, offering the only comfort she could. "None of us could, Loras. But... you loved him, and he knew that."
Loras closed his eyes, as if trying to hold back another wave of tears, and bowed his head. Margaery looked over at Robb again, his posture still rigid, though his expression had softened slightly. She could see that he, too, understood the gravity of what had been lost—not just a king, but a future.
Margaery stood then, drawing her strength from the necessity of the moment. She had no time for tears, no space for grief—not yet. There were still too many decisions to be made, too many moving pieces on the board that could not afford to sit still.
Margaery shook her head, squeezing his shoulder. "We have to keep moving forward, Loras. For Renly's sake. For our family."
Loras looked up at her, his eyes red and filled with pain. "What do we do now, Margaery? The men... they're lost. Stannis will come for us next, and without Renly..."
Margaery inhaled deeply, steadying herself before speaking, her voice measured but filled with resolve. "We have to be smarter than them. Stronger. Stannis may have won this battle, but he hasn't won the war." She rose to her full height, her words growing firmer. "We will return to Highgarden. The Reach still stands with us, and from there, we will secure a future that belongs to us—not to Stannis, nor to Joffrey."
Robb, who had been standing quietly until now, took a step forward. "If I may," he interrupted, his tone respectful. "May I offer my thoughts?"
Margaery glanced at him, a rare smile breaking through the weight of her sorrow. "Of course, Lord Stark."
Robb began, his voice somber but sincere. "I didn't know Renly for long, but I saw that he was a good man. He cared for the people around him, and I have no doubt that his first concern would've been your safety—both yours and Ser Loras's." His gaze shifted from Margaery to Loras before returning to her. "Your Grace, is there a chance you could be carrying Renly's child? A rightful heir might rally those who followed him, continuing the fight in his name."
Margaery's smile faltered. Her face softened with a quiet, painful honesty as she shook her head. "No, Lord Stark," she replied softly, her words laced with a sadness that ran deeper than mere loss. "We were never able to… Renly couldn't—"
Robb raised a hand gently, signaling her to stop. "It's alright, Your Grace. You don't need to explain further." He took a deep breath. "Then, unfortunately, we must face reality. You're now in a war with two claimants to the throne—both of whom see you and House Tyrell as traitors. You could return to Highgarden and try to sit out the conflict, but know this: the victor will eventually come for you, and the Reach will be swallowed in the aftermath. You could also attempt to make your own claim or support another, but without a true heir to rally behind, who would stand for a Tyrell on the Iron Throne?"
Loras, who had been standing by Renly's side like a shadow, suddenly rose, his expression darkening with frustration. "We understand, Stark. Renly was our chance, and now he's gone. There's no need to remind us of what we've lost," he said bitterly, his voice edged with grief and anger. "Whatever we decide now, it feels like doom is already upon us."
"No," Robb said, his voice firm but sympathetic. "You still have choices, Loras. You can throw yourselves at the mercy of Joffrey or Stannis, claim you were mistaken in backing Renly, and pledge House Tyrell's full strength to help one of them defeat the other. With that, you might survive, and if the gods are kind, perhaps the victor will take you at your word."
Loras's eyes flashed with fury as he stepped forward. "You expect us to spit on the memory of our king?" he demanded. "Renly could have saved this realm—he was our last hope for peace. And you want me to betray him? To bend the knee to the very people who laughed as he was cut down?"
"Loras!" Margaery's voice rang sharply through the tent, silencing him. She stepped toward her brother, her eyes fierce yet pleading. "Renly is dead," she said, her words a painful truth spoken aloud. "Clinging to his memory, to what could have been, won't bring him back. Lord Stark is right—we have to be practical. Our only hope for survival is to align ourselves with either Joffrey or Stannis. There is no other way."
Loras's face twisted with anguish, but he said nothing more. His hands clenched into fists, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might argue. But then he looked away, his shoulders sagging as the weight of their reality settled over him.
Margaery turned back to Robb, her expression unwavering and determined. "The question now is, which path do we take?" she asked, her voice low and controlled, though the weight of their decision was evident in her tone. "Which of these so-called kings is the lesser of two evils?"
Robb hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Your Grace…" he began, but then paused, deciding to be more candid. "Margaery, why did you marry Renly?"
Margaery's eyes flickered briefly with something unspoken before she gave the answer that had been expected of her. "He would have been the best king," she said evenly. "A marriage was the best way to secure a future for my house, for the realm."
Robb's eyes narrowed, sensing the layers beneath her rehearsed response. "Truthfully?" he pressed, his voice softer now, but firm. "I am a friend, Margaery. You can tell me the truth."
She hesitated, her gaze dropping momentarily to the floor as if weighing whether to reveal the ambitions that lurked behind the mask. When her eyes met his again, they were resolute. "I want to be the Queen," she admitted quietly, but with no less strength. There was no shame in her voice—only certainty.
Robb nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Then I say this as a friend, as someone who respected Renly and would have fought fiercely to see him take the throne: swear yourself to Joffrey. He is young, volatile, but malleable. With the right guidance, I believe he could be open to an alliance... and possibly a marriage."
Before Margaery could respond, Loras stepped forward, his face contorted with a mix of grief and anger. "Joffrey Baratheon is already betrothed to your sister," he reminded sharply. "Why would you seek to displace her as Queen? Do you not value your own family?"
Robb turned to face Loras, his expression solemn but clear. "Sansa is young, still a child" he said frankly. "She's been through too much already, and she isn't strong enough for the capitol—for the game that must be played." His voice softened, though it carried no less conviction. "But you, Margaery… I've seen you. Even in this camp, with all its constraints, I've watched you navigate the politics and the people. You already carry yourself like a queen."
Margaery studied him, her brow furrowing as she considered his words. There was truth in them, and more importantly, there was a strange comfort in knowing that someone saw her for who she truly was.
Margaery hesitated for a moment, her thoughts swirling as she weighed the gravity of the decision before her. "How is he as a King? As a man?" she finally asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
Robb met her gaze squarely, not letting the question linger for long. "I believe he can be guided," he said, cutting through her doubts. "And if anyone is capable of that, it's you." His tone was firm, almost resolute, as though he had thought long and hard about this very possibility. "Joffrey needs someone strong beside him. He may wear the crown, but you, Margaery—you would wield the power. With House Tyrell at his back, the tide of this war could shift, he would be a fool to turn that down. You wouldn't just be a queen in name; you'd be the one truly shaping the future of the realm."
Margaery fell silent, her mind racing. The weight of his words settled heavily upon her. She saw two paths in front of her: one that pulled her deeper into the deadly game, and another that led to obscurity or worse. To marry Joffrey might mean becoming a widow twice over, left to weep over another dead husband. Yet what was the alternative? To run from this fight? To fade into mediocrity, or live the life of a traitor, always looking over her shoulder?
Her ambitions—her hunger—would never allow her such a life. She had climbed too high to stop now, had risked too much already. Renly had been a chance at a throne, but with him gone, the game was not yet lost. Joffrey already sat the throne, she wouldn't be Queen of a camp or of a campaign but Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Before she could speak, Robb's voice interrupted her internal calculations, snapping her back to the present. "Listen, both of you," he said, his tone growing more urgent. "I'll be leaving within the next few hours to rejoin the Lannister campaign. What happens next is up to you, Margaery. I can go back to them with your terms of alliance, or... I can name you an enemy."
She met Robb's eyes, searching for any hint of hesitation or ulterior motive. There was none. His words were not a threat, but a fact, delivered with the kind of blunt honesty she had come to expect from the Young Wolf.
"I will speak to my father," Margaery declared, her voice steady and resolute. "House Tyrell will once again take up arms, this time in support of the one true King—Joffrey Baratheon." As the words left her lips, she felt the weight of her new role settling around her like a mantle, both daunting and exhilarating.
Robb's expression darkened, his brow furrowing as he absorbed her words. His lips pressed into a thin line, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of her decision. "I understand," he replied quietly, a hint of concern flickering in his eyes. With a final nod, he turned and stepped out into the brisk dawn, the chill of the morning air wrapping around him like a shroud. As he walked away, the enormity of the realm's fate pressed heavily on his shoulders, a burden that would not easily be cast aside.
Inside the tent, Margaery turned to Loras, whose face was still tight with anger and grief. "Loras," she said softly, reaching for his hand. "This is our path now. We cannot bring Renly back, but we can still win. For our family. For the Reach. Trust me, brother. I will make sure our house survives, no matter what it takes."
Loras stared at her for a long moment, the pain still etched across his face, but finally he nodded. "I trust you," he whispered hoarsely. "I always have."
Margaery offered Loras a small, reassuring smile before turning her attention back to the entrance of the tent. The dawn was breaking, casting a soft, pale light across the camp, illuminating the path ahead. As the world transformed around her, so too did her role within it. She paused for a moment, casting one last glance at Renly's still form. Bending down, she placed a gentle kiss on his hands, a bittersweet farewell that signified not just her love for him but also the life they could have shared—a reign filled with promise and potential.
With that kiss, she was also saying goodbye to her identity as Renly's Queen. She could no longer remain in the shadow of what might have been.
She would be Queen again and this time she would rule.