The Stag (1/2)
- Summary: The trueborn Baratheon heir wins the Hand’s Tourney and catches Margaery Tyrell’s eye, setting off a quiet battle of ambition, charm, and power in the royal court.
- Pairing: male!baratheon!reader/Margaery Tyrell
- Rating: Mature 16+
- Next part: 2
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial @literaturedog
The banners rippled in the summer wind, a forest of colors snapping above the lists, while the smell of trampled grass and horse-sweat mingled with roasted meat wafting up from the lower tiers. The royal box sat higher than the rest, hung with gold and black and crowned stag sigils, a reminder to all that House Baratheon ruled. King Robert lounged in his chair like a half-loosed bear, his thick hand wrapped around a goblet already half-drained, his beard damp with wine. Beside him, Ned Stark sat straight-backed, as if the weight of the crown pressed on him too, though it wasn’t his to bear. His eyes swept the lists, steady and keen, but they darted back often enough toward his daughters—Arya, squirming impatiently on her bench, and Sansa, hands folded, wide-eyed with all the poise her mother had drilled into her.
Cersei’s posture was perfection itself, spine unbent, shoulders set, her green gaze like a sword’s edge cutting across the crowd. Joffrey, at her side, had his mother’s smirk plastered across his lips, a boy-king in his own mind. The queen’s attention, though, did not stay on her golden-haired son for long. Her eyes lingered on you, her firstborn, the one child who carried Robert’s look rather than hers: black hair untamed by combs, blue eyes bright and stormy, a face that marked you as heir without need for word or title. When she noticed Lady Margaery Tyrell’s gaze following you as well—measured, assessing, the faintest shadow of a smile on her rose-petal lips—Cersei’s nails dug into the carved wood of her armrest.
Old Olenna Tyrell, sharp-eyed despite her years, saw it too, and her expression was the opposite of Cersei’s. The Queen of Thorns tilted her head ever so slightly, amused, lips pursing as if to say she’d already written the ending to this play. Lord Mace puffed beside her, beaming at every Tyrell banner raised, sweat trickling down his jowls, but his mother’s gaze remained locked on you, and on Cersei’s tightening jaw.
The tilt began with the trumpet’s blare. Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, rode out in shining armor adorned with blossoms, his mare prancing beneath him, nostrils flaring. The crowd roared, the maidens threw petals, and Sansa sighed as if the gods themselves had descended to ride. Arya made a noise between a cough and a scoff, and Robert laughed, clapping Ned’s shoulder. “The boy rides pretty, eh, Stark? All feathers and perfumes.”
Ned’s mouth twitched, though his eyes betrayed little. “He is skilled. More than most.”
Robert only grunted, turning to watch you take your place at the other end of the lists. No flowers adorned your helm, no gilt upon your shield—only the crowned stag, bold and black upon gold, polished to a battle shine. The stallion beneath you was larger than Loras’ mare, darker, all muscle and fire, a beast more suited for war than pageant. Robert leaned forward then, voice low, the flush of drink giving way to something else in his tone. “That’s my son, Stark. No prancing knight’s mare can unhorse him.”
Cersei’s eyes narrowed at the pride in his voice, her lips curling at the edges, but she said nothing.
The crowd held its breath as lances lowered. Loras spurred his mare, swift and graceful, but the animal was restless, twitching beneath him, the scent of stallions heavy in the air. Your horse charged true, hooves thundering, and you angled your lance with steady precision. At the last instant you shifted, guiding your stallion close, just enough to set Loras’ mare shrieking and shying sideways, her head tossing, legs tangling in panic. Loras fought to steady her, but it was too late—you struck him square, shield to chest, the crack of wood and steel echoing as the Knight of Flowers was driven back, lifted from his saddle, and sent crashing into the dirt.
The crowd erupted, gasps and cheers tangling like a storm. Sansa clutched her father’s arm in shock, Arya whooped aloud, and Robert roared with laughter, wine sloshing over the rim of his goblet. “Ha! Did you see, Ned? That’s no boy playing at flowers. That’s a Baratheon!” He stood half out of his seat, bellowing approval as the cheers swelled around him.
Ned’s mouth curved into the barest ghost of a smile, though his eyes were steady. “He rode well,” he said, simple as stone. But in his voice, too, was a trace of something warmer, though he kept it buried.
Cersei’s eyes burned as she turned from Robert’s thundering laughter to where Margaery Tyrell’s face glowed with quiet pride, her gaze fixed on you as you raised your lance in salute to the king. Margaery’s lips curved into the smallest smile, blooming like a rose opening to the sun, and Cersei saw it all. Her fingers tightened, knuckles white, as if she would crush the carved lions beneath her grip.
Olenna’s eyes glittered, and she leaned closer to her granddaughter, murmuring words the queen could not hear. Whatever they were, they made Margaery’s smile linger. Cersei sat frozen, a storm raging behind her mask of regal calm, as the trumpets blared again and the next tilt was called, Robert’s booming laughter still carrying above all.
The pause in the tourney came like the drawing of a collective breath, the field settling under the bright, pitiless sun. Knights led their steaming horses aside to be watered, squires hurried to carry buckets and cloths, and trumpeters lowered their instruments, letting the echoes fade. The air was thick with the tang of iron and sweat, mingled with the sweeter scent of flowers crushed beneath Loras Tyrell’s fallen body earlier. In the royal box, Robert was still in high humor, booming laughter shaking the canopy above his seat as he recounted your victory to anyone within earshot. Ned bore it with his usual grim patience, though even he allowed himself a sip of watered wine. Arya leaned out dangerously far over the railing, ignoring Sansa’s hisses for her to sit back properly, while Joffrey preened and muttered bitterly about “luck” and “tricks,” his sulking voice too low for the king to notice.
Cersei rose in silence, a smooth movement that drew no comment from Robert, who was too busy reliving your lance’s strike with drunken glee. The queen’s gown of crimson and gold shimmered in the sunlight as she descended from her place beside the king, the train of her skirts whispering over the steps. Her face was calm, regal, but her eyes—hard emeralds—were set with intent. The crowd below parted without thought as she moved, courtiers bowing, guards stepping aside, until she reached the Tyrell enclave at the edge of the stands.
There sat Mace, flushed and puffing from the heat, dabbing at his brow with a square of silk, while Olenna Tyrell looked altogether too comfortable for a woman her age, her sharp little eyes drinking in everything like a hawk in noonday sun. And between them, poised and luminous as if the tourney were staged solely for her presence, sat Margaery Tyrell. The girl was the very image of a maiden in bloom, her rose-colored gown cut to flatter without ostentation, her brown hair swept back to reveal a face crafted for courtly admiration. She looked up when Cersei approached, lips parting slightly, the faintest flicker of curiosity playing over her expression.
“Your Grace,” Mace Tyrell said, clumsily struggling to rise, though Olenna’s hand on his arm kept him seated with a stern pat. “What an honor.”
Cersei did not waste a smile on him. Her gaze cut past the oafish lord, past even the shrewd old woman who smirked knowingly, and settled on the girl. She lowered her voice, soft enough that only the Tyrells could hear, but there was steel in it, cutting and cold as a drawn dagger.
“You would do well, Lady Margaery,” Cersei said, “to keep your eyes where they belong. My son is heir to the throne of Westeros, not some prize at a harvest feast. Do not mistake a moment’s courtesy or a glance for invitation. His path is not yours to claim.”
Margaery lowered her lashes, a picture of maidenly humility, but her composure was flawless, the corner of her mouth hinting at a smile that might be read as obedience—or mockery. “Your Grace,” she murmured, voice low, honeyed, and smooth. “I only watched the tourney, as any maiden might. The prince rode with great skill. Surely no one here would begrudge me admiration of such.”
Olenna gave a dry cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Admiration is free, Your Grace,” she said, her tone cutting. “If we charged for it, the crown would find itself deeper in debt than even Lord Baelish’s quills could reckon.”
Cersei’s eyes flicked to her, and for an instant the mask cracked—the faintest curl of her lip, a tightening of her jaw. But she did not rise to the bait. Instead she leaned closer to Margaery, her voice quiet enough now that even Olenna had to lean forward to catch it.
“Admiration is harmless,” Cersei said. “Until it isn’t. My son has the look of his father, yes—but he will not live his father’s life. I will see to that. And I will not have some rose-petal girl from the Reach planting seeds where they do not belong. Do you understand me?”
Margaery lifted her eyes then, clear and bright, holding Cersei’s gaze without a tremor. She bowed her head gracefully, but the moment lingered between them, an unspoken defiance beneath the courtesy.
“Perfectly, Your Grace,” she said.
Cersei studied her a heartbeat longer, then drew back, her chin high, her composure unshaken. She turned with the swish of her gown, leaving behind the Tyrells, Olenna’s soft chuckle following her steps like a taunt.
When Cersei returned to the royal box, Robert barely noticed her absence, too deep in his laughter, retelling the tilt as though he had been the one with the lance. Ned’s eyes, however, followed her, narrowing slightly, though he said nothing. Only Arya, quick and unfiltered, muttered something under her breath about “the queen looking ready to bite.” Sansa shushed her, cheeks flushing, while Joffrey, oblivious, continued muttering about luck.
And below, Margaery Tyrell lifted her gaze once more to the lists, where you stood among the other knights, helm tucked under your arm, hair damp with sweat and face bright with triumph. The smile that curved her lips then was quiet, patient, and untouched by the queen’s warning.
The horses were led aside in the lull, foam streaking their hides, steam rising from their flanks in the heavy heat of the afternoon. Your stallion tossed his head but yielded easily to your squire’s tug, a testament to months of discipline and the bond forged between rider and beast. You stripped off your gauntlets and flexed your fingers, the sting of the lance’s impact still running up your arm. The noise of the crowd had ebbed to a steady murmur, broken only by the shouts of squires and the clatter of buckets being hauled across trampled ground.
Loras Tyrell stood nearby, helm in hand, his perfect hair damp with sweat and sticking in strands to his temple. The Knight of Flowers had been restored to his feet quickly enough, and though the mud on his cloak and the faint bruise on his pride lingered, he wore the face of a man determined not to let defeat sour his charm. He watched your stallion with narrowed eyes, lips set in a line that tried at nonchalance but failed at the edges.
“You’ve a fine horse,” he said at last, voice smooth, his tone carefully measured. “Well trained. Steady in any company, it seems. That sort of discipline doesn’t come easily.”
You tilted your head slightly, eyes flicking toward the mare being walked behind him, still restless, ears twitching and nostrils flaring as she fought the lead. “And you rode one fit for tricks,” you said plainly. “A mare in heat, set against a stallion. Not quite the noble flower’s chivalry the songs promise, Ser Loras.”
The words were not cruel, but neither did you dress them in politeness. They hung between you like the smell of sweat and horseflesh, unvarnished truth.
Loras did not flinch, though his jaw tightened the faintest bit. “You call it trickery. I call it strategy. The lists are not so different from the battlefield, Your Grace. We take what advantages we can.” His eyes slid back to your stallion, calmer now beneath your squire’s hand, and he inclined his head almost grudgingly. “But it seems your mount is better schooled than most. I’ll grant you that.”
There was a pause, the kind that hinted he might leave it there, let pride rest in silence. But Loras Tyrell was not one for silence. He shifted, a flicker of his charm returning, his gaze sharpening in calculation. “Of course,” he said, tone softening, “if we are to speak of skill and steadiness, horses are not the only measure. My sister, for instance… she is better trained in the court than most knights are in the lists. Grace, composure, the art of turning favor into loyalty. You may have bested me here, but I wonder if you’d fare as well against her.”
The words were light, almost jesting, but the weight beneath them was clear. It was no idle talk of siblings—he was measuring the ground between you, planting seeds with deliberate care. His eyes studied your face as he spoke Margaery’s name, as if gauging whether the mention of her would draw blood or blush.
You breathed evenly, rolling the stiffness from your shoulders, though you did not miss the way his words had shifted the air. Beyond the stables, the roar of the crowd began again as another pair of knights prepared to enter the lists, but here, in the space between lances and rest, it was quieter—quieter, and edged with something more than mere rivalry.
Loras’s lips curved faintly, the barest shadow of a smile. “We all joust in our own fashion, my prince. Some with lance, some with words. Some with roses.”
By the time the sun sagged lower in the western sky, the great tourney field was littered with the wreckage of splintered lances and trampled blossoms. Hours of tilts had blurred into one another—knights unhorsed, horses lathered, squires stumbling about with aching arms and dirt-streaked faces. The air was filled with dust, sweat, and the heavy tang of iron from dented mail. The royal box still commanded the center of attention, Robert booming with laughter each time a man was cast to the ground, his voice rolling like thunder above the cheers of the crowd. Yet the excitement had dimmed into the burnished glow of fatigue, the day drawing toward its end with the promise of wine, music, and meat at the feast.
In the Tyrell corner, beneath the trailing green-and-gold banners, Lady Olenna sat with her eyes glittering in the fading light. Mace had long since wilted under the heat, his silk doublet darkened with sweat, his applause sluggish. But Olenna’s mind was restless, always turning. Her gaze lingered not on the tilts, which had grown predictable, but on the royal box where you sat, helm now discarded, hair still damp and clinging to your brow, your features marked by your father’s storm-born look. You had spoken with the knights, shared words with your squires, but your presence was greater than all that—future heir to the realm, Robert’s true son, and, more importantly, a prize too valuable to ignore.
She leaned closer to her granddaughter, her voice a rasp, low and cutting through the noise as if the words were meant only for her. “The day dwindles, child. The feasting begins soon enough. And you’ve yet to speak to him.”
Margaery kept her gaze forward, lashes lowered in an imitation of maidenly restraint, but her grandmother’s words tightened her lips. “There will be time,” she murmured.
“There will not,” Olenna snapped, her tone sharper now. “The queen’s already sniffing about, and no lioness gives ground willingly. If you let this night slip by, it may be weeks before another moment arises. Feast or no feast, I would have you take your chance while his victory still rings in his ears.”
Margaery turned her head then, the waning light catching on the polished curve of her cheek. She was young, yes, but no fool; her beauty was matched with cunning, a weapon as much as a blessing. “And what would you have me say, Grandmother? Shall I rush to him with wide eyes and speak of my girlish awe? That would please Cersei well enough—make me seem a child chasing dreams.”
Olenna gave a little snort, shaking her head. “No, no. You are no child, and he must see it. Speak as though you are already his equal. Not a simpering girl but a lady who knows the weight of her house, who knows she could stand beside a king and not wither. Men tire of flattery quickly enough, but they remember a woman who makes them think.”
Margaery’s lips curved at that, a faint, knowing smile. “Then I shall make him think, Grandmother. And perhaps I’ll let him wonder what else I might make him do.”
Olenna’s eyes glittered, approving. “Good. You’ll have only a moment, perhaps two, before the queen drags him off or your lord father blunders in with his clumsy boasts. So take it when it comes. Let him remember your face tonight when the hall is filled with a hundred others.”
The girl sat straighter, smoothing her gown, her eyes flickering back toward the royal box. The distance between them was not far, yet it was filled with layers of watchful eyes and sharpened ambitions. Still, the thought of the feast ahead—the wine flowing, tongues loosened, shadows deepening—gave her the promise of opportunity. And she meant to seize it.
As the trumpets sounded for the final tilt of the day, Olenna settled back against her cushions, content. The roses of Highgarden had been carried into King’s Landing early, but they were not meant to sit idle in vases. They were meant to grow, to climb, to root themselves where no one could tear them free. And her granddaughter was the finest bloom she had ever cultivated.
The Red Keep glowed with torchlight that night, every archway and column dressed in banners of gold. The great hall thundered with music and laughter, the clatter of trenchers and the crash of goblets echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling. Boars roasted on spits, their crackling skins shining with fat, while servants wove between crowded tables bearing jugs of wine and platters of venison drowned in rich sauces. Lords and ladies pressed close together, the heat of so many bodies rising like smoke, filling the air with sweat and perfume. At the high table, Robert sat sprawling on his chair as if it were a camp stool, his great fist pounding the wood each time he roared at a jest or a bawdy song.
You had taken your seat beside him at the start, your goblet filled at once by a servant who knew the king’s heir would be watched as closely as the king himself. Robert had been quick to brag again of your victory in the lists, clapping you on the back with a force that rattled your bones, his voice carrying above the din: “A Baratheon through and through!” But as the evening grew and the feast thickened, you excused yourself with careful courtesy. Robert was too lost in his cups to notice much beyond the haunch of boar before him, but Cersei noticed. She always noticed.
Her eyes tracked you as you descended the dais, weaving among the lower tables where lords rose in greeting, eager for a word with the future of the realm. Whispers followed you like a cloak, the heads of minor houses bending together, voices soft but hungry. The boy who had unhorsed the Knight of Flowers was no longer just Robert’s heir—he was a prize, a power to be courted.
From her place beside the king, Cersei leaned back, her face as composed as a sculpted mask, but her gaze flicked across the hall until it caught her brother. Jaime stood a short distance behind the high table, golden hair bright in the torchlight, his lion’s face unreadable as ever. With the barest movement—no more than a lift of her brow—she summoned his attention. Jaime’s lips curved in the faintest smile, but he understood. He always did. Without word, he began to drift along the wall, always within reach of his sword, never letting his eyes leave you as you disappeared among the knots of lords.
Cersei let out a slow breath, turning her attention back to the table where Joffrey leaned forward with eager cruelty in his eyes, prattling about how he would have handled Ser Loras differently. Tommen sat quieter, rosy-cheeked with too much wine for his young age, while Myrcella—sweet, golden-haired, her face lit with innocent delight—tilted her head to hear a singer’s tale. Cersei arranged her expression to gentleness for her children, her hand brushing Myrcella’s hair from her shoulder, but her mind never strayed far from you. You were Robert’s son, yes, but you were hers as well, and she would not see you undone by anyone—least of all by Reach roses with their thorns hidden beneath soft petals.
It was at that moment, with the noise of the feast swelling, that Margaery Tyrell moved. She had waited with patience, watching the crowd, noting each moment when you were surrounded, and each when you slipped free of the crush of courtiers. Olenna’s warning still echoed in her ears: take your chance. She rose gracefully from the Tyrell table, her gown of deep rose silk flowing like water around her as she walked, her bearing composed, her smile subtle enough to seem unplanned.
You had just stepped back from a short exchange with Lord Redwyne when she found her opening. The music dipped, the singers pausing between songs, and in the heartbeat of quiet that fell, Margaery came to stand before you. The torchlight softened the line of her face, turned her brown hair into silk, her eyes shining with poise. She curtsied lightly, but not so deep as to seem subservient.
“My prince,” she said, her voice low, warm, and carried just enough to be heard over the hum of the feast. “I could not let the night pass without offering my congratulations. You rode with such strength and skill today. The whole hall still speaks of it.”
Her words were measured, not breathless flattery but admiration wrapped in courtesy. She held your gaze as she spoke, unflinching, as though daring you to dismiss her as another wide-eyed maiden. Around you, lords and ladies glanced discreetly, the space between you and her charged with a kind of expectation that needed no herald to announce it.
Jaime’s eyes, unseen from the wall, narrowed as he took in the scene. Cersei, still seated above, did not yet see—but the tension coiled like a drawn bowstring, and the night had only just begun.
The feast had deepened into that rich, heady stage where wine blurred edges and laughter ran thicker than sense. Musicians had struck up in earnest now, their strings and pipes weaving through the hall with lively rhythm, the kind that coaxed even stiff-limbed lords from their benches. Servants swept away the bones and scraps of supper to make space down the center of the hall, where the first brave couples were already beginning to dance, skirts and cloaks catching the torchlight as they spun.
You lingered near the edge of the press, your goblet only half-drained, watching with the calm detachment of someone raised in the midst of pageantry but never wholly seduced by it. The weight of your father’s blood made you an object of fascination; every lord and lady knew it, every glance that grazed you held calculation. But you carried it differently than Robert ever had. There was no booming laughter spilling from your lips, no stumbling toward excess. You carried yourself with steadiness, that deep-water quiet that unsettled men accustomed to reading brashness as strength.
Margaery Tyrell remained at your side, her hand resting lightly on the stem of her goblet, her poise flawless, though the faintest quickness lingered in her eyes. She was trained for this—raised to glide into conversation as easily as breath, to tilt her head just so, to let her smile bloom at the right beat of a song. And yet with you, she felt the ground shift. You did not rush to fill silences, nor lean toward her with hungry eagerness like so many others. You studied, you listened, you left her words to stand unembellished. It was a kind of composure she found disarming.
“You have a reputation already,” she said, her tone soft, carrying only to you despite the rising hum of the hall. “Unhorsing my brother today has the lords buzzing like bees. They’ll say it was strength, or skill, or simply that you carry your father’s blood. But I saw more than that. You were patient. You guided your stallion with such control… it was as though you anticipated what he would do before he knew himself.”
There was admiration in her words, but not the shallow adoration of a girl sighing at a knight’s shield. It was deliberate, thoughtful, almost probing. She sought to understand how you thought, how you moved.
You inclined your head, the faintest curl of a smile touching your mouth. “A man who relies only on brute force won’t last long in the lists. Or in a hall like this.”
The reply was quiet, but it left Margaery momentarily still. Most men, given her opening, would have drowned her in boasts or tried to impress her with exaggerated stories. You had given her truth, pared back and edged, with just enough weight to force her to consider it. She laughed lightly then, a sound meant to soften the tension, but inside she was unsettled. For all her training, she had not expected him to play the game in this way—by not playing it at all.
The musicians shifted their tune, the tempo brightening, the dancing drawing more couples forward. Cloaks flared, jewels glittered, the great hall seemed to pulse with rhythm and color. You set your goblet aside and turned to her, offering your hand with the calm certainty of one who does not ask twice.
“Will you dance, Lady Margaery?”
She blinked, taken back by the simplicity of it. Not a florid compliment about her beauty, not a plea masked as courtesy—simply an invitation, direct and unyielding. Her fingers hovered for a breath, her instincts pulling in two directions: the practiced coyness drilled into her by a lifetime of instruction, and the awareness that this was not a man to be toyed with by delay. At last she placed her hand in yours, her voice steady but softer than before. “I would be honored, my prince.”
As you led her toward the cleared floor, she felt the gazes converge, whispers rising like sparks from dry wood. The queen’s eyes followed, though her face remained composed. Jaime’s golden head turned subtly from his place near the wall. Olenna leaned forward in her seat satisfied. But for Margaery, all of that receded as you guided her into the first steps of the dance.
He moved differently than the others, she thought, as your hand steadied hers and your steps kept perfect pace with the musicians. There was no flourish for display, no clumsy eagerness, no rehearsed attempt to dazzle. You simply danced, your attention unwavering, as though she were not another piece in a game of roses and lions, but the only partner in the hall. And that, more than any honeyed words, was what unsettled her most.
For the first time in years, Margaery Tyrell did not know how to navigate the man before her.
The music carried on, swelling with lutes and pipes, the rhythm quickening as dancers spun across the center of the hall. Every eye seemed fixed on the pair at its heart—you, tall and steady, and Margaery Tyrell, radiant in her rose-hued gown, her laughter like a note written into the music itself. The firelight caught on her hair, on the gold threading your sleeves, and for a moment it looked as if the feast had been arranged for this one tableau: the heir of the stag and the flower of Highgarden, moving as though the world bent toward them.
At the high table, Cersei’s hand tightened around the stem of her goblet. She drank, the strong tang of the wine cutting her tongue, though it did nothing to blunt the edge in her chest. Her eyes never left the pair, narrowing with each spin, each moment where her son’s gaze lingered on the Tyrell girl’s face. She sat perfectly still, the practiced stillness of a queen who would never show herself rattled, but the tension in her fingers betrayed her fury.
It was then that Ned Stark approached, rising from his place a few seats down where Sansa and Arya sat with eyes bright from the spectacle. He carried no goblet, his posture as straight as if he were still in Winterfell’s hall and not in a court dripping with southern air. When he reached the queen’s side, he did not speak at once, only let his grey eyes follow her gaze toward the dance floor.
“You don’t care for her,” he said at last, his voice quiet, flat, more observation than question.
Cersei’s lips curved into the faintest, bitterest smile. She swirled her wine, watching the red liquid catch the torchlight. “Any good mother would hate a girl like Margaery Tyrell. She is trained too well—too soft on the surface, too sharp beneath. A girl who looks at a crown not as a burden but as a trinket to be worn.” Her eyes flicked to him then, cold and cutting. “Would you have me welcome such a one near my son?”
Ned’s gaze did not waver, though a shadow passed through it, as though he weighed her words with a measure of truth he would not admit aloud. “I see a young man who is not his father. Smart. Capable. He knows when to hold his tongue, and when to strike. He unhorsed Ser Loras not by strength alone, but by wit. He will not be easy prey for roses, nor for lions.”
Cersei’s smile thinned to nothing. She turned her head slightly, glancing at Robert slumped on his chair, his beard glistening with grease and wine as he shouted for another song, oblivious to the dance, to his children, to the whole web of schemes unfurling around him. Her eyes lingered on him a heartbeat too long, then returned to the sight of you and Margaery, the two of you moving together with a grace that seemed almost inevitable.
“He is,” she said at last, voice softer now, tinged with something she seldom allowed into her tone. “More than I expected. More than Robert deserves.” Her eyes narrowed again, the steel returning. “Which is why I will not see him squandered on a girl who smiles too easily.”
Ned said nothing more, only followed her gaze in silence, his jaw tight. The music swelled, the hall applauded, and still you and Margaery danced, oblivious to the storm gathering in the queen’s wine-dark eyes.
The musicians let the last notes fade into the vaulted ceiling, bows slowing across strings, pipes lowering, the rhythm softening into silence. Around the hall, the dancers stilled, skirts and cloaks swaying with the final movement. The applause came swiftly, scattered at first, then swelling into a warm wave of clapping and cheers. You released Margaery’s hand with an easy grace, bowing with the courtesy drilled into you since boyhood.
“Lady Margaery,” you said, voice clear, calm, without the false honey so common in court. “The hall was brighter for your company.”
It was the sort of farewell that gave nothing away and yet lingered, courtly enough to leave no offense, respectful enough to leave her wondering. You stepped back then, straightening, your eyes already moving elsewhere. With a nod, you let her go, as if to prove that you were neither enchanted nor ensnared.
Margaery, for her part, dipped into a curtsy, her rose-colored skirts spilling like a bloom around her. “My prince,” she replied, her voice smooth, but her eyes lingered for the briefest instant longer than courtesy demanded. Then she turned, the torchlight sliding across the dark wave of her hair as she walked with unhurried poise back toward the Tyrell table. The murmurs followed her like shadows, courtiers whispering as if they had witnessed the beginnings of a union, though all that had truly passed was a dance and a bow.
You moved instead toward the far side of the hall, where your uncle Renly stood with a cluster of storm-lords. Renly was resplendent as ever, green and gold trimmed with fine embroidery, his smile wide enough to light the hall on its own. He welcomed you with open arms and a clap on the shoulder that was less bone-rattling than your father’s but no less proud. Around him hovered minor lords of the Stormlands—Estermont, Penrose, Swann—men who watched you with a mix of deference and calculation. They bowed and spoke warmly, eager to offer praise for your victory in the lists, eager to attach themselves, however lightly, to the rising star at court.
Back at the Tyrell table, Olenna leaned forward, her eyes glittering beneath the folds of her headdress as Margaery returned. The Queen of Thorns never wasted time. “Well?” she asked, her voice cutting through the chatter of her kin like a blade. “Did he stumble over himself? Did he sigh and blush like a boy? Or did he press his claim as boldly as his father might have?”
Margaery lowered herself onto the bench, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her face serene. But she hesitated, and that alone was enough to make her grandmother’s eyes narrow.
“I am not sure,” Margaery admitted, her voice soft, contemplative, carrying a note of unease she rarely allowed. “He is… different. Not brash, not eager. He speaks plainly, and then he leaves silence behind, as though he expects me to fill it. When he looks, it is as if he is weighing, not wanting.”
Olenna studied her granddaughter for a long moment, then sat back with a dry little laugh. “Good. Then he is not a fool. Which means you’ll need to be cleverer still.”
Margaery smiled faintly, though her gaze drifted back toward you, standing now among your uncle’s lords, your dark head bent slightly as you spoke, laughter touching your lips at some jest of Renly’s. She had expected a man easier to charm, easier to guide. Instead, she found herself unsure—and that uncertainty was more dangerous than any blunt refusal.
In the torchlit hall of the Red Keep, with wine flowing and music swelling anew, the game had only just begun.
