Margaery Tyrell had encountered many men who wielded their names like weapons—some sharp and precise, others blunt and heavy—but Corlys Velaryon, it seemed, carried his like a feather caught in a summer breeze.
His smile was a careless thing, half-formed and teasing, as if he had just awoken from some pleasant dream and had yet to decide whether reality was worth his full attention. They stood beneath the shade of a carved stone archway in the gardens of King’s Landing, the scent of blooming myrtle thick in the air. Margaery held a goblet of Arbor gold in her hands, idly tracing the rim with one finger, her expression one of pleasant amusement. @velcryons ft. corlys iii.
“And tell me, my lord,” she said, tilting her head slightly, “do you truly mean to keep avoiding your mother’s summons, or shall I be the one to drag you before Lady Shaera myself? She and myself wonder your place in this court.” A short pause giving as she takes a drink from her goblet. "Yo do not hide your disdain for the King Joffrey."
Corlys Velaryon was a man who had been given much and asked for little, a man who could slip away from duty with the grace of a cat leaping from a windowsill. And yet, there was something about him that intrigued her—perhaps the rumors.
