Margaery IV
"And what about this one?" one of Margaery's ladies asked, holding up a delicate nightdress embroidered with the sigils of all the great houses of Westeros. The fabric was soft, expertly stitched, with colours that shimmered in the light of the fire. It was clearly made with great care, each sigil intricately detailed, as if to symbolise the unity of the realm's noble families.
"It's lovely," Margaery said with a gracious smile, nodding to her lady-in-waiting. Instantly, the gathered women squealed in delight, exchanging excited whispers amongst themselves. Their laughter and chatter filled the room, but Margaery's smile faltered slightly as she cast a glance toward the ever-growing pile of gifts surrounding her. "As were the last hundred," she murmured under her breath, so softly no one but herself could hear.
She was seated in her luxurious chambers, adorned with tapestries and bouquets of winter flowers, the scent of roses ever-present in the air. Her ladies had spent the better part of the afternoon presenting her with a seemingly endless parade of gifts, all sent from lords and ladies across the Seven Kingdoms after the announcement that she and her husband were expecting twins. It had been a flood of tokens—gowns, blankets, toys, and delicate little trinkets, each more extravagant than the last. The news of twins had sparked a frenzy, and the gifts had not stopped coming.
Margaery's smile remained fixed as her ladies continued to coo over each item, their excitement almost contagious. Almost. She couldn't deny the warmth she felt at the thought of her children, the future they represented, but the weight of the attention was beginning to wear on her. So many expectations, so many eyes watching her every move, every gesture. The gifts, though beautiful, had started to blend together in her mind, and she found herself longing for a moment of quiet, away from the constant flurry of admiration.
Still, Margaery played her part flawlessly, as she always had. With practiced ease, she reached for the embroidered nightdress and ran her fingers over the intricate stitching. "It's truly beautiful," she said aloud, her voice carrying a warmth that made the ladies smile even brighter. Inside, though, her thoughts drifted elsewhere—toward the life growing within her, toward the future of her children. Beyond the embroidery and the sigils, beyond the whispered alliances and subtle power plays that came with each gift, there were her twins. And they were all that mattered.
A knock came at the chamber door, drawing Margaery's attention. She turned to see Tommen standing in the doorway, his presence immediately causing her ladies to drop into deep curtsies, murmuring their respectful "Your Grace." Tommen, now a boy of seventeen, had grown taller over the years, yet he still carried the round, youthful face of the boy she had married, his innocence lingering despite the weight of the crown he bore.
"Apologies, my ladies," the young king said with a gentle smile, his voice warm but still tinged with the politeness of youth. "I've come to steal the Queen."
Margaery, grateful for the interruption and a momentary reprieve from the endless display of gifts, felt a wave of relief wash over her. She rose gracefully from her chair, her movements fluid and poised, as though the weariness of the day hadn't touched her. Her ladies watched, their voices hushed, as she crossed the room to join her husband.
"Of course, Your Grace," she said softly, slipping her arm through his as she joined him at the door. There was a quiet affection between them, a bond they had carefully cultivated over the years, despite the difference in their ages. Though Tommen had matured, there was still a sweetness about him that endeared him to Margaery, and she had always treated him with a gentle kindness, aware of the burdens he carried.
As they left the chamber together, Margaery felt the tension of the afternoon begin to ease. She was more than just a queen, more than the figure of admiration and diplomacy—she was, in this moment, simply Tommen's companion. And for that brief escape, she was grateful.
"I thought we could take a walk," Tommen said, his tone earnest. "Mother says you need fresh air and exercise for the babes' health."
Margaery smiled warmly, hiding her amusement at how dutifully Tommen followed his mother's advice. "What a wonderful idea, Your Grace," she replied, her voice light and affectionate.
"And Mother also says Qyburn has some new herbs for your tea," Tommen added, as if recalling another instruction. "They're supposed to help with your headaches."
"How thoughtful of them," Margaery answered, her expression remaining pleasant, though inwardly, she felt a flicker of discomfort at the mention of Qyburn. He had arrived in King's Landing several years ago, quickly earning Cersei's favour with his unorthodox methods. Cersei trusted him implicitly, and Margaery, ever diplomatic, had initially done the same.
When she and Tommen had first begun trying for a child, it was Qyburn who had eagerly offered her various tonics and medicines to aid in conception. He had seemed so certain, and she had wanted to believe in his remedies. But month after month passed with no sign of success. It wasn't until Margaery decided to quietly stop taking the concoctions—without anyone's knowledge—that she had finally conceived. The realisation had been both a relief and a quiet suspicion she kept to herself.
Now, as she walked with Tommen, her arm linked through his, she felt the weight of those memories, though her smile never wavered. She looked down at her growing belly, where her twins moved within her, and was reminded of what truly mattered. They were healthy, strong, and hers. That was what she focused on now.
"Shall we?" she said, nodding toward the gardens, where the air was crisp and the sunlight streamed in golden rays. Tommen beamed at her, clearly pleased with his suggestion, and they began their stroll, the quiet of the gardens offering a brief respite from the intrigues of court life.
As Margaery and Tommen stepped into the gardens, the cool air brushed gently against her skin, a welcome change from the stuffiness of her chambers. The autumn sun filtered through the golden leaves, casting dappled shadows on the cobblestone path. The gardens of the Red Keep, though meticulously maintained, still held a sense of peace and calm that felt far removed from the plotting and whispers of the court.
Tommen walked beside her with an easy stride, though he kept glancing toward her belly, his boyish concern evident. He had always been gentle and kind-hearted, traits that endeared him to her, though she knew those same qualities left him vulnerable to the manipulations of others—his mother, especially.
"How are you feeling?" Tommen asked, his voice soft as if he feared speaking too loudly might disturb her.
Margaery smiled at him, her hand instinctively resting on her growing belly. "I'm feeling well, Your Grace. The babes are strong." She had long since perfected the art of saying the right thing at the right time, offering reassurance when it was needed. But with Tommen, it wasn't just a performance. She truly wanted him to be at ease, to feel confident in the future they were building together.
Tommen's face brightened at her words, his eyes softening with a mixture of relief and joy. "I can't wait to meet them," he said, his voice filled with a youthful innocence. "I wonder if they'll look like you."
"Perhaps," Margaery replied, a smile playing on her lips. "Though I think they might take after their father, don't you? With your golden hair and gentle nature."
Tommen blushed slightly, a shade of modesty still lingering in him despite the crown on his head. "I just want them to be healthy," he said after a moment, his tone sincere. "I want them to be happy."
Margaery's heart warmed at his words. Tommen's simple desires, so untainted by ambition or cruelty, were a rare thing in the world they lived in. He wasn't like Joffrey, whose hunger for power and cruelty had consumed him. Tommen's love was genuine, and it made Margaery all the more determined to protect the family they were creating.
They walked in silence for a while, the soft crunch of leaves beneath their feet the only sound. Margaery glanced over at Tommen, taking in his boyish face, still untouched by the harsher realities of kingship. Cersei had kept a tight grip on him, shielding him from many of the burdens he would one day have to bear. Yet Margaery knew that soon, Tommen would need to stand on his own, to face the political tides without his mother's constant guidance.
As they reached the fountain at the heart of the garden, Tommen paused, turning to her with a question in his eyes. "Do you ever get... tired?" he asked, his voice suddenly unsure, as if the thought had been weighing on him.
"Tired?" Margaery repeated, her brow furrowing slightly. "Of what, Your Grace?"
"Of all of it," he said, glancing around the grandeur of the Red Keep. "Of being Queen. Of the court, the politics... everything."
Margaery studied him for a moment, the vulnerability in his expression touching her deeply. She had never seen Tommen express such doubts before. It reminded her that, despite his title, he was still so very young, still grappling with the immense responsibility placed on him.
"I won't lie, Your Grace," she said softly, her voice gentle. "It can be exhausting. The court, the expectations... it can weigh heavily on anyone. But you don't have to carry it all alone. You have people who care for you, who support you." She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "And one day soon, you'll be a father. That will bring its own kind of strength, and its own kind of joy."
Tommen's face softened, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips. "I hope I can be as good a father as you will be a mother."
Margaery's smile brightened at his words, though she felt a pang in her chest. Tommen's desire to be a good father was sincere, but she knew how difficult it could be to shield him from the darker sides of kingship—the betrayals, the manipulation, the ruthless decisions. Still, she would do everything in her power to help him become the kind of king—and father—that Westeros needed.
"You will be," she said with certainty. "I know it."
They stood together in the quiet of the garden, the fountain's gentle trickle filling the air. Margaery glanced up at the Red Keep, its towering spires casting long shadows over them. Despite the challenges ahead, she felt a sense of resolve settle within her. She would protect her family, her children, and her king, even if it meant navigating the dangerous waters of the court with more care than ever before.
For now, she would let Tommen enjoy the peace of this moment, unaware of the battles that lay ahead.
Walking down the path toward them, Margaery spotted Cersei, gliding with her usual regal poise, her golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. Beside her strode Lord Tywin Lannister, tall and imposing, his expression unreadable, but his presence commanding attention as always. Margaery felt her muscles tense instinctively, bracing herself for what was to come.
She had long grown accustomed to navigating the treacherous waters of court, but no encounter with Cersei was ever easy. And with Tywin at her side, the weight of the Lannister family's power felt all the more suffocating. Margaery straightened her shoulders and prepared herself—diplomatic as always, yet alert for whatever challenge the two might present.
Cersei's gaze, sharp as ever, landed on Margaery first. Her green eyes flickered down to Margaery's rounded belly before rising back to meet her face, lips curling into something that might have passed for a smile if it hadn't been so tightly controlled. "Out for a walk, I see," Cersei said, her tone smooth but with an edge that Margaery knew all too well. "Tommen, you should have told me you planned to take your queen out for some air. I would have joined you."
Margaery's own smile remained warm, though beneath it, she felt the familiar prickle of Cersei's subtle barbs. "It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, Your Grace," she replied, glancing fondly at Tommen. "Your son is ever concerned for my health and the health of our children."
"How thoughtful of him," Cersei said, her gaze softening briefly as she looked at Tommen, though there was a glint of something—possessiveness, perhaps—lingering behind her eyes. "But he is right. A future king must take care of his queen and heirs. And it's important you stay... strong, for the trials to come."
Margaery held her ground, sensing the layered meaning in Cersei's words. Everything Cersei said felt like a game, a message wrapped in civility. It was a reminder that even now, with Margaery carrying the next generation, Cersei's position as mother and queen regent still held power. The trials to come—Margaery wondered if she was speaking of the children or the inevitable power struggles that would arise once they were born.
Before Margaery could respond, Tywin cleared his throat, his deep voice cutting through the exchange. "Tommen," he began, his eyes flickering briefly to Margaery before focusing on the boy, "your mother and I have matters to discuss with you. Important matters of state." His tone was firm, commanding in the way only Tywin Lannister could be.
Tommen looked between his mother and Margaery, his expression clouded with uncertainty. He was caught, as he so often was, between the pull of his duty to his family and his desire to remain by Margaery's side. "I... We were just finishing our walk," he said hesitantly, glancing toward Margaery for some kind of reassurance, as if hoping she could help him navigate the tension.
Cersei's gaze flicked toward Margaery, her lips curving into a thin smile that barely reached her eyes. "And I'm sure the Queen will be in need of another walk later," she said smoothly, her voice carrying the practiced air of someone who was accustomed to having the final word. "Come, Tommen."
She began to turn, fully expecting her son to follow. But Tommen hesitated. He looked back at Margaery, his brow furrowed with determination that rarely surfaced, at least in front of his mother. "Margaery is my Queen," he said, his voice stronger now, a ripple of defiance threading through his words. "Whatever you wish to say can be said in front of her."
For a moment, there was a stunned silence. Margaery blinked, her surprise carefully concealed behind a serene expression, but her heart quickened. Tommen rarely defied Cersei, and though his words were soft, they carried a quiet strength. He had grown in more ways than one.
Cersei's face hardened, though her smile remained plastered in place, more a mask than an expression of warmth. Her eyes, however, betrayed her, flashing with something cold and sharp. "Tommen," she said, her voice edged with that familiar tone of maternal authority she wielded so effortlessly, "there are matters of the realm that do not concern everyone. Even queens must step aside when the crown's business is at hand."
Before Tommen could respond, Tywin's voice cut through the tension, as sharp and precise as the man himself. "Just as you stepped aside, daughter?" he asked, his piercing gaze locking onto Cersei. It was a subtle rebuke, delivered in Tywin's signature calm yet commanding manner. The power dynamics shifted in that moment, with Tywin reminding everyone who truly held the reins. "The King is right," he continued, turning his attention to Tommen, "Queen Margaery should be made aware of what's happening, especially when it concerns her."
Margaery remained composed, though a ripple of unease stirred in her chest. She could sense something significant was about to be revealed, something far beyond mere court politics.
Tywin straightened, his expression grave as he delivered the news. "Stannis Baratheon has not taken kindly to the latest developments, Your Grace. For years, since his defeat at the Blackwater, he has been quietly moving across the Kingdom, seeking allies, though none have given him their support."
"Until now," Cersei added, her voice taut with restrained anger. "We've received word that he's struck a pact with the Iron Bank of Braavos. They've agreed to fund his efforts, providing him with the coin he needs to buy an army."
The weight of Cersei's words hung in the air like a dark cloud, and Margaery's mind immediately raced to the implications. The Iron Bank, with its near-limitless wealth, was a formidable ally for anyone seeking power. If Stannis now had the financial means to raise an army, he could become a threat once again.
Tywin folded his hands behind his back, his gaze narrowing as he shared more. "Our sources tell us he intends to march north. Perhaps he thinks Robb Stark could be persuaded to join his cause.."
Margaery, despite the unease rising within her, felt a flare of certainty. "Robb would never betray us," she said firmly. He was proud, honourable—too honourable, perhaps—and she doubted he would ever turn against the Crown, against her.
Tywin's sharp eyes shifted to Margaery, his expression as unreadable as ever, though there was a trace of calculated caution in his tone. "That may be," he said slowly, weighing her words carefully, "but Stannis is still a risk. One that cannot be underestimated. Your uncle Tyrion is in the North for Arya Stark's wedding. I'll write to him, see if he can gauge Lord Stark's true feelings. But perhaps we can ensure the Starks' loyalty through other means. A more permanent bond."
Margaery sensed where this was headed before Tywin even spoke his next words. Her stomach clenched, but her face remained poised, her hands lightly resting on her swollen belly as she listened.
"A marriage pact," Tywin continued, his voice deliberate. "Between your eldest daughter and the Stark boy—Torrhen. Offering the Starks a princess could secure their allegiance for generations."
Tommen blinked, his youthful features clouded with confusion. "A princess?" he echoed, as if the idea had never occurred to him before. "We don't even know if one of the twins is a girl yet," Tommen added, his voice uncertain, glancing at Margaery as if for reassurance. The very thought of arranging a marriage for a child who might not even exist yet clearly unsettled him.
Tywin, ever the pragmatist, dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand. "No, but the Queen will have more children," he replied, his voice firm, as though the matter were already settled in his mind. "We simply offer the firstborn daughter of the Queen to be the future Lady of Winterfell, whenever she is born."
Margaery remained silent, her mind turning over the implications of what Tywin was proposing. To bind her unborn daughter to the Starks was a strategic move, certainly, but the weight of it settled uncomfortably in her chest. The political game never ended, not even for her children.
Before she could respond, Cersei spoke, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. "To give the Starks that much power is a mistake," she said coldly, her eyes narrowing at Tywin as though challenging his authority. "We'd be handing them influence in both the North and the South. They've always been dangerous, and they could turn on us the moment they saw an opportunity."
Tywin's patience snapped, his tone suddenly harsh. "It's that or see Stannis Baratheon on the throne," he retorted, his voice low but full of iron. "We need the Starks on our side. Stannis is rallying his forces, and with the Iron Bank backing him, we cannot afford to make enemies of the North. Offering them a princess in marriage is a small price to pay for their loyalty. And besides," he added, with a sharp glance at Cersei, "you would struggle to find a better match. Torrhen Stark will one day be Warden of the North. A Stark-Baratheon alliance would secure the realm in ways Stannis could never hope to match."
Cersei's lips pressed into a thin line, her distaste for the idea clear in her expression, but she said nothing further. It was rare for her to be openly defied by her father, but Tywin was a man who saw beyond personal grudges, who weighed the fate of kingdoms above all else. Cersei had no choice but to fall silent, though the tension between her and her father was palpable.
Tommen, still young and unfamiliar with the complexities of such alliances, looked to Margaery, his confusion evident. "What do you think?" he asked quietly, seeking her counsel.
Margaery met his gaze, her heart aching at the innocence in his question. How could she explain the necessity of a political marriage to a boy who still believed in love and fairness? How could she tell him that, in their world, even their children were pawns in this game?
She took a breath and spoke carefully, her voice soft but resolute. "Your grandfather is right, Your Grace," she said, choosing her words with care. "The North is powerful, and Torrhen Stark will one day command great respect. A marriage alliance could unite the realm, just as our marriage brought peace. But..." She glanced briefly at Tywin, then back to Tommen. "We must be cautious. Such decisions should not be made lightly, nor in haste."
Tywin gave her a curt nod of approval, recognizing her diplomatic phrasing. "Indeed," he said, his voice more measured now. "But the sooner we secure the Starks, the better. With the Iron Bank behind him, Stannis will grow bolder. We need to ensure the North does not waver."
Margaery felt the weight of the decision pressing down on her, the future of her unborn daughter—her entire family—wrapped up in these quiet negotiations. She would have to tread carefully, navigating the desires of Tywin, the suspicions of Cersei, and the innocence of Tommen, all while protecting her own interests.
"I will do whatever is necessary to ensure the safety and unity of the realm," she said, her voice carrying the weight of the crown she wore. "For our children's future."
Tommen squeezed her hand gently, the trust in his eyes unwavering, though she knew he barely understood the depths of the sacrifices they would both have to make.