Margaery III

Over a moon had passed in the capital since Joffrey's death, and the city was beginning to shed its shroud of mourning. The black banners that had draped over every building and street corner were slowly being taken down. People, once cloaked in the dark garments of grief, were cautiously returning to their house colours, as though eager to leave behind the shadow of the late king. Soon, the only ones still clad in black were Margaery and Cersei. The mourning period for a king was traditionally longer, but it was clear that no one was eager to linger in memory of Joffrey Baratheon. The quicker his reign was forgotten, the better.

Margaery knew this was only the beginning of the changes to come. The power in King's Landing was shifting, and she could feel it like the tides pulling her in directions beyond her control. She had to stay ahead, to keep her footing, or risk being swept away. Her grandmother, Lady Olenna, had already decided to return to Highgarden. Without her sharp mind and unwavering support, Margaery would be left to navigate the treacherous waters of the capital alone. Alone, except for her father, Mace Tyrell—a well-meaning man, but utterly useless when it came to the political intrigue of court. His presence offered her little comfort. He was a blunt tool in a city that required a scalpel.

Margaery looked out over the Red Keep from her balcony, the early morning light casting a dull glow over the rooftops. The city below buzzed with its usual life, but there was an undercurrent of unease—whispers of what was to come. Tommen would be crowned soon, but her position as Queen had never been more uncertain. She knew Cersei's eyes were on her, watching for any misstep, waiting for any opportunity to push her aside. Margaery had seen that look before—the cold, simmering anger beneath Cersei's grief.

The Queen Regent had lost one son, and while she might dote on Tommen now, Margaery knew that Cersei's ambitions did not die with Joffrey. She would do anything to maintain control, to keep her claws in the Iron Throne. Tommen's gentler nature was a far cry from Joffrey's cruelty, but it also made him more vulnerable—to manipulation, to danger, and most of all, to his mother.

Her grandmother had called on her early and invited her to take their breakfast in the gardens, Margaery had never felt this lost. Every step she took felt wrong, she had worked hard to secure friendships with Robb, Roslin and Sansa and now they were all gone, returned to their castles to start their lives and she had been left behind, not a Queen, not really a widow, not really anything.

Margaery clung to her grandmother's arm as they strolled through the manicured gardens of the Red Keep. The air was thick with the scent of blooming roses, but Margaery could hardly appreciate it. "I can't believe you're leaving me here, alone with these people," she murmured, her voice edged with apprehension.

"The time has come, my dear," Olenna replied briskly, her tone matter-of-fact as always. "There's nothing more tedious than a trial, except perhaps these gardens. If I have to take one more leisurely stroll through them, I'll fling myself from the tallest tower like Queen Helaena herself."

Margaery chuckled despite herself. The sharp humor of her grandmother always had a way of cutting through the tension. "And besides," Olenna continued, her eyes glinting, "your mother cannot be trusted to arrange a proper marriage for your brother. What a pity about Sansa, truly. She would've made a fine Lady of Highgarden, but alas, we must adapt. There's always another opportunity waiting."

They arrived at a small table set by the edge of the garden, overlooking the glistening waters of Blackwater Bay. A modest selection of food had already been laid out—fruits, cheeses, and a pot of steaming tea. Olenna seated herself gracefully, her sharp eyes never missing a detail, while Margaery followed more slowly, her thoughts heavy.

"Have you seen Tommen yet?" Lady Olenna asked, pouring herself a cup of tea.

"No," Margaery admitted, shaking her head as she settled into her chair. "I don't even know if they've officially agreed to the match. No one tells me anything."

Olenna raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "They will agree. The Lannisters are not in a position to refuse us, not now. Besides, if they had any sense, they'd thank their gods for a queen like you. I wasn't originally meant to marry your grandfather Luthor, you know."

Margaery glanced up, intrigued. Her grandmother rarely spoke of her own marriage unless it was to make a point.

"No?" Margaery asked, half-amused, half-curious. "I always thought you and grandfather were perfectly matched."

"Oh, well," Olenna waved her hand dismissively. "He was meant to marry my sister, your great-aunt Viola. I, of course, was destined for some Targaryen or other. Marrying a Targaryen was all the rage back then, but when I saw my intended—Prince Daeron, I think it was—twitchy little ferret-face with that ridiculous silver hair, I knew he wouldn't do. So, the night before Luthor was to propose to Viola, I got… lost on my way back from an embroidery lesson and found myself in his chambers. How absent-minded of me."

Margaery laughed as Olenna's eyes twinkled with mischief. "The next morning, Luthor couldn't even make it down the stairs to propose to my sister. The poor boy could barely walk." Olenna leaned in conspiratorially. "And once he could, the only thing he wanted was what I had given him the night before. I was good, my dear. I was very, very good. And you—well, you are even better."

Margaery's laughter faded as her grandmother's tone grew serious. Olenna's sharp gaze fixed on her with the weight of decades of experience. "But you need to act quickly," she warned. "Cersei may be vicious, but she's not stupid. She'll poison that boy's mind against you if you give her the chance, and by the time you're married, it could be too late. Fortunately for you, the dear Queen Regent is rather distracted right now, mourning her precious Joffrey. Accusing Petyr Baelish of his murder, which he didn't commit."

"But he could have done." Margaery added, frowning.

Olenna tilted her head slightly, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "Well yes, he could've done, he should've have done but he didn't"

Margaery's eyes narrowed, "You don't know grandmother."

"I do know," Olenna interrupted smoothly. "You didn't think I'd let you stay married to that beast, did you? If Tyrion had given him the cup, Joffrey would've been dead before the end of the feast. I suppose I should thank whoever finished the job, but rest assured, it wasn't Baelish."

Margaery stared at her, the weight of her grandmother's words sinking in like stones. "Wha- I don't…understand. What are you saying?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't trouble yourself with the details," Olenna said softly. "The important thing is that Joffrey is gone, and now you have a chance to secure your place as queen. But you need to be quick, clever, and careful. Cersei will come for you eventually. Make sure you're ready when she does."

Margaery nodded slowly, the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. Olenna smiled, her sharpness softened by affection. "Remember, my dear—this is your game now. Play it well, and you'll sit on that throne for the rest of your days. But hesitate for too long, and someone else will."

Margaery sat in silence for a moment, her mind racing, heart pounding. For so long, she had wondered how she could navigate the vicious world of King's Landing, how to avoid becoming one of Cersei's casualties. Now, everything was different. Her grandmother had cleared the path for her, but the next steps were hers alone.

She looked down at her hands, her fingers absently tracing the edges of the teacup in front of her. "And Tommen?" she asked finally, lifting her gaze to meet Olenna's once again. "What should I do with him?"

Olenna smiled that same sly, knowing smile. "Tommen is a boy. A sweet, innocent boy. He already admires you, and that's a powerful thing. Use it to your advantage."

Margaery frowned. She had always been good at charming those around her, but Tommen was different. He was young, impressionable, and most of all, utterly devoted to his mother. Cersei had built her entire life around protecting her children—Tommen would be no exception.

"I can't just charm him the way I did Joffrey," Margaery murmured. "He's just a child."

"And children soon become men" Olenna replied, sipping her tea. "Childish infatuation will turn into adult love. Make that boy obsessed with the idea of you and then when he's old enough he'll belong to you."

Margaery nodded slowly. "I can do that."

"Of course you can," Olenna said, her voice sharp with confidence. "You'll make him feel that with you by his side, everything will be alright. That's what he'll crave—a sense of calm in the chaos. Cersei will only provide more chaos."

The idea began to take root in Margaery's mind. Tommen wasn't like Joffrey—he wasn't cruel or sadistic. He was a kind boy, one who could be swayed by affection and care. If she played her cards right, she could have Tommen on her side completely, long before Cersei even realized what was happening.

"And when we're married," Margaery said, her voice growing steadier, "I'll be queen."

"Exactly," Olenna agreed, setting down her cup with a satisfied clink. "And with your intelligence, charm, and beauty, you'll be the one ruling the Seven Kingdoms. Not Cersei, not Tywin. You."

It was late in the afternoon when a sharp knock echoed through the quiet of Margaery's chambers. She had been seated by the window, sipping tea and gazing out at the gardens below, lost in thought about the conversation she'd had with her grandmother. The day had been peaceful, but now, something in the air shifted—a tension she couldn't quite place.

She rose gracefully from her chair and moved to the door, smoothing her gown as she went. When she opened it, Margaery found herself face to face with two of the most formidable figures in King's Landing: Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, and his daughter, Queen Regent Cersei Lannister. Tywin's gaze was as steely and calculating as ever, while Cersei stood beside him, her expression tight and cold, her green eyes flickering with thinly veiled contempt.

"Lady Tyrell," Tywin greeted her, his deep voice calm and commanding. "May we come in?"

Margaery kept her face serene, offering a courteous smile, though her mind raced. A visit from both Lannisters was unusual, especially unannounced. Something was at play here, and she needed to tread carefully.

"Of course, Lord Hand," Margaery replied smoothly, stepping aside to allow them entry. "It's an honour to have you both."

Tywin and Cersei swept into the room like they owned it, their presence immediately filling the space. Tywin moved toward the center of the chamber, his movements deliberate and purposeful. Cersei, on the other hand, seemed to linger near the door for a moment, her eyes scanning the room as if searching for something out of place. Her lips curled slightly, almost as if she was tasting bitterness on her tongue.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Margaery said, motioning toward a small seating area by the hearth. She kept her voice light, inviting, though she felt the weight of their presence pressing down on her.

Tywin settled into one of the chairs, his posture as rigid and controlled as ever. Cersei sat beside him, crossing her arms, her gaze flicking to Margaery with a sharpness that felt like a silent accusation. Margaery knew the animosity between them had only deepened since Joffrey's death, but she wasn't about to let Cersei's icy demeanor unnerve her.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Margaery asked, taking her seat opposite them. She kept her expression open and polite, though inside, her mind was working quickly, trying to anticipate their intentions.

Tywin wasted no time, as was his custom. "There are matters that need addressing, Lady Tyrell, concerning the future of the realm and your place within it."

Margaery's brows lifted slightly in a show of mild curiosity. "Of course, my Lord. I am eager to do whatever is best for the realm."

Tywin inclined his head, his pale green eyes studying her closely. "Good. It's no secret that King Tommen will soon require a queen," he said, his voice measured. "And given the tragic events at Joffrey's wedding, it's in the best interests of both the crown and House Tyrell to move forward with a new union—one that will secure stability for the kingdom."

Margaery nodded, understanding where this was leading. She had expected the marriage to Tommen to be discussed, but not quite so soon. "I would be honoured to serve the realm as Tommen's Queen," she said softly, with the perfect blend of humility and strength, "As I was to serve as Joffrey's, I loved the King and I miss him everyday."

Beside Tywin, Cersei stiffened, her fingers digging into the arms of her chair. "A queen is not what Tommen needs right now," she said under her breath. "He needs his mother—"

"Cersei," Tywin interrupted, his voice low but firm. "Tommen is the king now. And a king needs a wife. It is not a matter of choice, but of duty."

Cersei shot him a glare, her eyes burning with frustration. But she held her tongue, her lips pressing into a thin line as she looked away, her anger barely contained.

Margaery watched the exchange, careful to keep her face neutral. She knew that this conversation wasn't just about the marriage; it was about power. Cersei didn't want to lose her influence over Tommen, and Margaery was the threat standing in her way. But Tywin, ever the pragmatist, saw the marriage as a necessary political move, one that would solidify the Lannister-Tyrell alliance and secure Tommen's reign.

"I understand your concerns, Your Grace," Margaery said gently, addressing Cersei directly for the first time. "Tommen is young, and he will always need his mother. I would never seek to replace you in his life." She paused, letting her words sink in. "But I believe I can offer him something different—companionship, guidance, and support as he grows into the man he is destined to become."

Cersei's gaze snapped back to her, her eyes narrowing. "And what would you know about guiding a king?" she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. "You have no idea what it takes to rule."

Margaery met her gaze evenly, refusing to be cowed by Cersei's hostility. "I know that ruling requires wisdom, patience, and understanding. Qualities I have learned from my family and will continue to cultivate. But I also know that Tommen deserves to have people around him who care for him—not just as a king, but as a person."

Tywin, who had been watching the exchange with an unreadable expression, finally spoke again. "This is not a debate, Cersei. The decision has been made. Lady Margaery will marry Tommen, and the arrangements will be made swiftly. The realm cannot afford any further delay."

Cersei's knuckles whitened as she gripped the armrests, but she remained silent, her fury simmering beneath the surface.

Margaery allowed herself a small, inward sigh of relief. Tywin had effectively silenced Cersei's objections for now, but she knew this was only the beginning. Cersei wouldn't give up so easily, and the road ahead would be fraught with challenges. Still, Margaery was prepared. She had the support of the most powerful man in the kingdom, and soon, she would have the crown.

"I am grateful for your confidence, my Lord," Margaery said, her tone sincere. "I will do everything in my power to be a good queen to Tommen and to ensure the stability of the realm."

Tywin nodded, his expression unwavering. "I expect nothing less," he said firmly. "The marriage will take place immediately after Baelish's trial. It will be small, simple, and most importantly—quick."

Margaery held her breath, feeling the weight of Tywin's words settle over the room like a heavy mantle. She knew the urgency behind the decision but hadn't expected it to be quite so swift. Even so, she kept her composure, her face a picture of calm and grace.

Cersei, however, was not as controlled. She leaned forward, her voice tight with barely concealed frustration. "Tommen is but ten and two," she snapped. "We can wait a few years, surely. Let him grow, let him—"

"We cannot wait at all," Tywin interrupted, his voice cutting through Cersei's objection with cold finality. "Do you know there's a girl in Essos who would claim the throne as her own? She has the right name, the right bloodline, and three dragons at her back. Three dragons. What do you think happens when she decides she's ready to come home, to claim what she believes is hers?"

Margaery's heart skipped a beat at Tywin's words. She had heard the whispers of Daenerys Targaryen, the last surviving child of the Mad King, gathering her strength across the Narrow Sea. But hearing Tywin speak of it so plainly, with such grave urgency, brought the threat into sharper focus. Dragons. The stuff of legends, the fiery beasts that had forged the Iron Throne. And they were real.

Cersei's face paled, her lips thinning as she absorbed the gravity of Tywin's warning. But her defiance didn't waver. "Tommen is still a child," she insisted, her voice trembling with both anger and fear. "What good will a rushed marriage do if he's too young to—"

"When that girl crosses the Narrow Sea, we will not have time to prepare," Tywin said, his tone growing colder with every word. "We will need a united front, alliances that are already in place, families that are already tied together by blood. Tommen will marry Lady Tyrell, and as soon as he is old enough, he will put a babe in her. An heir. That is what the realm needs. Stability. Continuity."

He glanced at Margaery then, his calculating gaze taking her in, as if weighing her against the challenges to come. She met his eyes, her own resolve hardening. She knew what was expected of her now—not just as a wife, but as a queen. And if the future was as dangerous as Tywin believed, she would need to be prepared.

"Tommen's youth will not be an issue," Tywin continued, turning back to Cersei, his voice brooking no argument. "The marriage will be symbolic for now. But once he comes of age, he will fulfill his duties as king. And he will secure the crown through his heirs."

Cersei's jaw clenched. She knew she was losing this battle, her resistance crumbling under the weight of Tywin's iron will. But Margaery could see the flicker of anger still burning in the Queen Regent's eyes. Cersei wasn't just fighting for Tommen—she was fighting for her own place in this world, for her grip on power. And she wasn't going to let go without a fight.

"And you think a marriage will be enough to stop this Targaryen girl?" Cersei asked, her voice biting. "You think she'll care about some alliance with the Tyrells when she has dragons at her command?"

Tywin's expression darkened. "Dragons or not, we will meet her with the full strength of the crown. And that includes the Tyrells. Their gold, their armies, their loyalty. That is how we will stop her."

Margaery felt the weight of those words sink in. This marriage wasn't just a union between her and Tommen—it was a line of defense against the chaos threatening to engulf Westeros. And she would play her part, as she always had, navigating the treacherous waters of power with grace and cunning.

Cersei rose from her seat, her eyes flashing with barely contained fury. "You would sell my son's future for a war that may never come," she spat, her voice trembling. "You would risk everything—"

"I am ensuring his future," Tywin snapped, his patience wearing thin. "And the future of this kingdom. You may not like it, Cersei, but you will accept it. Tommen will marry Lady Tyrell, and that is final."

Cersei's hands trembled, but she said nothing more. She simply turned on her heel, her skirts swirling behind her as she stormed toward the door. "Do what you must," she threw over her shoulder, her voice cold. "But don't think for a moment that I will let you control my son."

With that, she was gone, leaving a thick silence in her wake.

Margaery exhaled slowly, her gaze shifting from the door to Tywin. The tension in the room lingered, like the crackle of a storm that had yet to break.

Tywin stood, smoothing the front of his tunic with an air of finality. "Do not let Cersei's behavior concern you, Lady Margaery," he said, his voice calm once more. "She will come around. In the end, she knows what is best for her son."

Margaery nodded, her smile faint but resolute. "I trust your wisdom, Lord Hand. I will do everything within my power to ensure a smooth transition for Tommen and for the realm."

Tywin gave a short, approving nod. "Good. We will begin preparations at once."

As he left her chambers, Margaery remained seated, her mind racing. The path ahead was becoming clearer, but also more dangerous. Dragons, trials, another wedding—it was all happening so quickly.

But Margaery Tyrell was no stranger to swift changes. She had survived the fall of Renly Baratheon, maneuvered her way into the heart of the Lannister court, and now stood on the brink of becoming queen once again.

This was just another step in the game she was born to play. And if Tywin was right—if there truly was a Targaryen girl with dragons—then Margaery would need to secure her place on the throne sooner rather than later.

She glanced toward the door where Cersei had vanished. The Queen Regent was a formidable enemy, but she was also unraveling. Grief, rage, and desperation were taking their toll on Cersei, and Margaery would use that to her advantage.

But the game was not yet won, and Margaery knew she would have to tread carefully. One wrong move, one misplaced trust, and everything she had worked for could crumble.

But for now, she smiled to herself, a quiet determination settling within her. Soon, she would be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And when the time came, she would prove that she was more than capable of holding that title.