"Apologies, my dear," the words come frayed, the smile a shadow of a grimace. One hand grasps tight the cloth of his breeches, eyes squeezing shut as another wave of pain crosses his body. But it's worse in the leg, the epicenter of this casualty, as it always is. "I know we agreed to ride in the fields today, but it seems --" his voice falters, and his chest tries to find air to breathe through the pain, "it seems we shall choose another day to go. I'm sorry, Margie. I know you wanted to go..."
FROM MY DEAREST OF BROTHERS | @aforlornrose
She knew his leg pained him–knew it often kept him from doing what he wished–but Margaery had never seen him so affected by it. Seeing the agony in his face and hearing it in his voice sent a wave of panic through her. It served to shatter–if only momentarily–the image she held of an infallible brother, one who had pain but was strong in spite and because of it.
That alone was enough to frighten her.
As if on instinct, she spurred into action. Her voice rang out clear and firm as she caught the attention of a few passing servants. High and girlish though they sounded, the authority within her words was unmistakable. “Bring my brother’s chair at once and fetch Maester Lomys. Now.” The two servants scurried off, bewildered and slightly abashed by the authority a girl of four-and-ten had over them. Margaery took her brother’s arm and led him to a bench, careful not to jostle his bad leg. “I can go riding any day. Your company is what I truly craved,” she said, waving away his worries even as disappointment and concern nipped at her.
