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" You’re the only person I’ve ever met who seems to have the faintest conception of what I mean when I say a thing. " - Virginia Woolf

Under the heat of the sun, in a field covered with wildflowers and where the breeze delights in song, two bodies lay interwoven on ivory blankets. Legs tangled up in one another, fingers delicately trailing over each limb. They themselves are blossoming flowers, ever so radiant under the basking sun. In this garden, well tucked away from the prying eyes of others, well protected from judgment, laughter echoes with the dancing of the trees.

Daphne believed there could be nothing more that could make her happy; none at all but this. It is a rare thing, for sure, to be adored, but it is the rarest of all, to be seen and understood. Margaery sees her, for all that she is. All her hopes, her dreams, her flaws, things that bring her happiness, sorrowful woes. Even upon her debut into the seven kingdoms with the amass of suitors on her beck and call, there was no one else. There was only them. There was only her rose.

She leans forward. The other’s fiery red tresses ensnared in the tips of her fingers. Her scent itself rivaling that of the wildflowers around them. She trails a lingering finger from the other’s arm down to her waist, a curve she could memorize over and over. A gentle sigh escapes her blush coloured lips. " So what did you think of Lord Kent? He is quite dashing. Though if I do say so myself, he is incredibly daft. " A wisp of laughter stopped abruptly by her own thoughts. She is daring her own fate, uttering words to gauge the other’s affections. She has an answer she wants to hear. ‘You do not think of him, though. Because you only think of me. Right?’ Nonetheless, her manicured smile returns; curated to perfection. An armour she wears relentlessly. " If you are to marry I would atleast demand he take history lessons. He is no match for a queen. "