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Margaery Tyrell I

Small Council Chambers, Red Keep, Kings Landing.

The council meetings were rarely exciting. An hour had passed with little of note, as was often the case. Still, Margaery came. Not only out of duty, though that was reason enough, but because the small council chamber was one of the few places in King’s Landing where something resembling governance still took place. More importantly, it was one of the few rooms where her voice might still be heard.

Beside her, King Robert Baratheon slumped in his gilded chair like a sack left too long in the sun. His second goblet of wine sat empty beside him, and his tunic strained against the bulk of his stomach. A flush crept up his neck and face, and despite the cool stone of the chamber, a sheen of sweat clung to his brow.

He had said nothing of value today. He rarely did. His appearances at council were infrequent and came only at Lord Eddard Stark’s urging. When present, he offered little and ruled even less. A grunt, a nod, a muttered insult. That was the sum of his kingship now. When he deigned to speak, it was often to mock. If she offered an opinion, he ignored it. If she persisted, he laughed. Sometimes he called her “girl” before the assembled lords, as if her name were too fine a courtesy. She was tolerated, decorated, and then dismissed.

There were days she imagined she could have borne the rest of it. The coldness. The betrayal. The bruises. If only he had let her speak here. If she had been allowed that one thing. But she had not. And she would never forgive him for it.

The perfume he wore today was thick and floral, a poor mask for the stench of wine and last night’s sweat. He had grown heavier since their wedding, slower, more grotesque with each passing season. He reeked of rot, in spirit if not yet in flesh. Even now, seated in his throne-like chair, he seemed to be melting under his own weight. One hand groped lazily toward the wine as if he expected it to leap into his palm.

She wondered sometimes if the women he took to bed even pretended to enjoy it. Or if they simply bore it in silence with closed eyes and clenched teeth. She pitied them, in a way. Their humiliation ended with coin and the closing of a door. They could walk away.

She remained.

Draped in gold and silk, crowned and seated beside him, she had never felt worse. Never felt her shame more keenly. She breathed deeply and toyed with the gloves she wore. The leather was creased, so she smoothed the wrinkles with careful fingers and tried to ground herself while he gorged himself beside her.

She did not look at him long. Truly, she could not. Instead, she fixed her gaze forward, her hands laced neatly on the table.

Lord Eddard Stark sat at the head of the table, scrolls and reports arranged in a meticulous line before him. Even here, this far south, in a den of southern intrigue, he looked like a man carved from snow and stone. His beard was shot through with grey, his eyes sharp and quiet. Only the occasional rub at his temple betrayed the weariness beneath his composure.

Yet no matter how tired or strained he seemed, one thing remained unchanged. When he spoke, the room listened.

Across from her, Tyrion Lannister reclined in his chair with a goblet of wine in hand, watching the proceedings like a man at a play. He rarely spoke unless provoked, but when he did, his words landed with precision. The tragedy that had shattered House Lannister had changed him. Everyone knew it. He was as much hostage as he was Master of Coin, though few would speak it aloud.

Her father, Lord Mace Tyrell, had already begun his usual performance. Scroll in hand, voice raised a little too loudly, he launched into a familiar rhythm of excuses. He had not yet moved on to grievances or cloaked requests for Crown gold, but she knew it would come soon. It always did.

“The Reach,” he was saying, cheeks ruddy, “has already done more than its fair share! Our grain feeds the Stormlands and the Riverlands—”

“And now the Westerlands,” Eddard Stark cut in evenly, not raising his voice but instantly silencing the room. “They are starving.”

“We all know whose fault that is,” Renly muttered from further down the table. Dressed in greens and golds, he lounged with casual grace, his gaze flickering toward Tyrion with only the thinnest veil of courtesy.

“I’m sure the Lannisters would be happy to feed themselves,” Renly added smoothly, “if they hadn’t burned every field from Ashemark to Fair Isle in their war. But that’s what happens when pride comes before reason.”

Tyrion lifted his goblet in mock salute. “I’ll be sure to tell my father you said so. If I survive the delivery.”

Robert snorted, his first contribution of the day. “Bah! Let Tywin eat his bloody gold if he likes. What do I care?”

“You should care,” came Stannis’s low voice. Seated opposite, he looked as if the whole room offended him. Especially Robert. “If there’s famine in the Westerlands, it’ll spill into the Riverlands, then the North. Chaos spreads faster than harvests.”

“With all due respect, Lord Stark,” Mace said, his voice tight, “the Reach is not the realm’s granary. Highgarden has been generous, exceedingly so.”

Ned clenches his fist, his voice quiet but edged with iron. “And yet the Westerlands starve. Children are dying, my lord. This council exists to serve the realms smallfolk, not just the families seated around this table.”

Mace sniffed. “And what does Casterly Rock offer in return? Coppers. You ask the Reach to feed the realm, while the Lannisters hoard their gold.”

“Tywin offered a reasonable price,” Ned said flatly. “You’re asking to profit off famine.”

Mace opened his mouth, indignant.

But Ned turned his gaze elsewhere.

To her.

“Your Grace,” he said, cutting through the tension, “you’ve reviewed the harvest ledgers. What’s your view?”

Silence fell.

Even her father hesitated, because it was clear Ned was not speaking to Robert.

Margery blinked once in surprise, then straightened. He was asking her. Not as a formality. Not to placate her father. He wanted her opinion.

“I think,” she said, her voice clear and steady, “that the realm must be fed, whether the grain comes from gold fields or green ones. The Reach has food. The Westerlands do not. This is not a matter of coin or pride. It’s a matter of hunger.” She wondered if that sounded convincing to anyone, but did not dwell on her own lack of confidence in these matters.

She turned to her father, “And I would rather Highgarden be remembered for mercy than for stinginess.”

Tyrion chuckled into his cup. “Well said.”

Mace reddened but said nothing.

A flicker crossed Ned’s expression. Not quite a smile. But unmistakable approval.

“We’ll draft the charter by week’s end,” he said. “First shipments leave within the fortnight.”

Robert, dazed and distracted, muttered, “Just make sure it doesn’t all end up in the Lannister larders. Bloody lions’ll feast while the smallfolk starve.”

“I’ll oversee it personally,” Ned replied.

Margery nodded. “Grain, salted fish, flour. We can ship south along the Mander, then up the coast. Are the docks at Kayce intact?” It would be better to avoid Lannisport.

“They are,” Ned said. “Overworked, but standing.”

“Then we’ll rush the first shipment,” she added, her gaze shifting slightly to Tyrion. “But it will require Crown oversight. We won’t have our grain misplaced upon arrival.”

Tyrion raised his goblet again, a flash of seriousness behind the jest. “The Lannisters are famously restrained when starving.” Then, softer: “A gracious queen. How rare a thing in this city.”

She didn’t smile. Not fully. But the warmth in her eyes was unmistakable. She gave a small nod, gaze finding Lord Stark again.

He had asked her. Not out of politeness. Not to flatter. Simply because he wanted her opinion.

And gods, how long it had been since anyone had.

It was only grain. A routine matter. Nothing grand or ceremonial. But she had spoken, and she had been heard. That small act, so easily given, so rarely offered, left her sitting taller in her seat.

She leaned back slightly, letting the moment linger. It was the first time in more than a year that she had felt anything like this. Not since before her wedding night. It was small, almost nothing. But gods, how desperately she had needed it.

Robert let out a loud snore beside her.

No one paid him any mind.

The council continued, taxes, levies, supply lines, but she barely heard a word. Her eyes remained on Ned Stark. The lines in his face, the strength in his shoulders, the quiet way his fingers moved across parchment with care.

He was not like the others. Not like Robert. Not like the Lannisters.

And for the first time in a long while, she let herself feel something dangerous.

Respect.

But not just respect.

Hope

and worst of all

Longing

Eddard Stark I

Hallways of the Red Keep.

He did not know what to make of the Queen not at first, and certainly not now. When Olenna Tyrell had arranged meetings between himself and Margaery Tyrell, he assumed it was yet another maneuver, one more careful ploy in the southern hellscape of King’s Landing. The Tyrells, ever opportunistic, likely meant to plant their roots deeper into the Red Keep. And when Margaery Tyrell began visiting the Tower of the Hand, he expected frivolous inquiries or, worse, appeals for gold. 

Those never came. Instead, the Queen listened, she learned, she understoofdthe realm in ways her husband never would, ways he simply could not. She cut expenditures without complaint, absorbed council reports like scripture, and never once asked for coin. When she made suggestions, they were informed. Measured. Thoughtful.

And still, Robert treated her like worse by the day, she was a constant fixture at court, but just that. A decorative piece to smile alongside the king. It was not too surprsing, not after everything that happened with Cersei and the war that followed. Cersei had been cold and cunning, yes, but even she had been feared. Listened to. Indulged. Robert was concentrated to not remake the same mistakes.

The result he watched over the last year was unsurprsing in a way, but frustrated him more than he cared to admit. Margaery did everything right, and still she was ignored. Belittled. Touched without affection. When she spoke, no one heard. Mocking the Queen became a way to earn Roberts Favor, listening his ire. 

And yet she smiled. She bore it. She returned to the Tower of the Hand, day after day, the the council chambers where she offered her input, as though dignity could be built from routine.

He respected her for that.

She reminded him of Catelyn sometimes, sharp-eyed, capable, dignified even in her sorrow. But the memory of Cat didn’t bring warmth. It brought an ache so deep he could barely think around it. He saw her last beneath grey skies, her face smudged with ash from the siege of Riverrun. She’d died in the final months of the War of Three Kings, and no raven had carried news of it fast enough. He’d buried her months too late, in a place that did not feel like home.

Still, she lingered longer than needed. Sat a little too close in his solar. Her tone, at times, danced on the edge of something... peculiar. But he chalked it up to courtly playfulness. The Tyrells were a warm-blooded family far more tactile and expressive than Northerners. He didn’t think much of it. So when they crossed paths in the hallway that day, and he bowed with a grimace, cursing that duel with Jaime Lannister all the while, he did not expect her to stop him when he said, “Your Grace."

"Margaery," She corrected him, sharper than her usual tone. Softly she added, “I do also have a name.”

He blinked. Was she… offended?

“I rather like hearing it,” she said, with a small smile, polished but never quite reaching her eyes. It might have passed for banter, had her voice not sounded so tired beneath the surface.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Margaery.”

“You’re always so formal,” she said at last. “You bow. You address me by title, even when we’re alone. Formailities are not needed with friends, are they?"

“I show respect,” he said simply. “It’s what you deserve.”

“Yes,” she said after a beat. Her voice was quiet, uncertain. “You do." She was silent for too long. You’re the only one who does,” she added, almost softly. There was no edge in her voice. Just truth. Her eyes drifted down the corridor, as if weighing whether to say more. When she looked back at him, her posture was as perfect as always, but her fingers worked anxiously at the edge of her sleeve, rubbing at the seam like it itched under her skin.

He frowned. “I doubt that.”

She let out a small, humorless breath. “You shouldn’t.” She didn’t accuse him of anything. But the words still sturred something in him. “My husband forgets I’m speaking before I finish the sentence,” she said. “The court smiles when it wants something and mocks me when it doesn’t. My father… sees me as part of the Tyrell strategy, as a piece in a game he does not understand. And my ladies… well. They curtsy, and they watch, they laugh.”  She hesitated, lips pressed together, and for a moment Ned thought she wouldn’t go on. “I shouldn’t be saying this,” she murmured. Her eyes dropped for a second. “You’re not… This isn’t your burden.”

But she didn’t stop.

“He called me Cersei yesterday. During court. Mid-sentence. I think he meant it as a joke.” A wry smile twitched at her mouth sharp and bitter. “I suppose I should’ve taken it as a compliment. She got results, at least.”

Ned’s throat tightened, but he still said nothing. The hallway felt warmer than it should have, stifling with torchlight and southern humidity.

“You treat me like I’m a queen,” she said. “And I know that should mean something. I know it does.” She rubbed her wrist absently. A small gesture, she looked younger than she was in that moment. “But I don’t feel like one,” she said, softer now. “Not truly. Not when no one listens. Not when I have to earn the right to speak in my own court.”

“I know it’s not your duty to make me feel less alone,” she said. “And I shouldn’t put that weight on you.” She hesitated, then drew a slow breath and straightened herself a mask returning to her face, the soft smile she offered gave a quiet resolve. “I forget myself sometimes,” she murmured. “That wasn’t fair of me.”

Ned shook his head. “No need to apologize.”

She looked at him, unsure.

“I forget why I came south some days,” he confessed."I find myself surrounded by strangers who mock me and  offer fake smiles.”

Her expression softened, hopefully genuine, but she remained quiet.

“I miss plain words,” he said. “I miss cold air and honest company. And I miss having someone to speak to who doesn’t expect a performance.” He didn’t say anyones name. He didn’t have to. “I’m not a man for clever words,” he went on. “But if you ever need someone to listen, I’ll be here.”

There was a pause, brief and fragile.

“I would like that,” she said. “More than I can say.”

The way she said it caught him off guard, it was cautious, hopeful, like someone holding out a hand in the dark afraid to be bitten. She offered him a final small smile then. It didn’t reach her eyes, not fully, but it was something more honest than the ones she wore at court.

“Good Night, Ned Stark.”

Then she turned and walked away, without haste, with soft measured steps. 

Ned stood alone in the corridor, the torchlight flickering gold against the stone.

Chapter Text

Eddard Stark II

Tower of the Hand, Red Keep 

He heard her before he saw her. Silk did not clink or creak, but it whispered, a soft, gliding sound like ribbon over parchment. Ned looked up from the report in his hands, expecting a page or a steward. He felt no surprise at the sight of Queen Margaery. She had come so often that her presence no longer required announcement.

“Your Grace,” he said, rising. He set the scroll aside more quickly than he intended, his hands adjusting his belt as if recovering from being caught off guard.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She smiled, warm, practiced, and faintly amused, as though his words had offered her a private joke.

“Lord Stark. I hope I’m not intruding.”

She stepped inside with unhurried grace, her heels soft against the stone. She wore green, darker than olive and lighter than forest. The fabric shimmered faintly, sleeveless and cinched at the waist with a golden thorned rose. Her neckline dipped a little lower than Northern taste allowed. Nothing scandalous. Nothing that would raise a brow in the Reach. But enough.

He averted his eyes.

“Not at all,” he said, gesturing to the chair near the hearth. Her chair, rather. “Though I should warn you, I’m reviewing tax requisitions. It’s about as thrilling as it sounds.”

“I’m a queen,” she said lightly, settling without hesitation. “I’m used to people speaking at me while I pretend to be engaged.”

His mouth twitched. “And here I was about to offer you a chart of grain prices.”

“Be still my heart. You do understand why I come here,” she murmured, her hand resting on her chest in a mocking, though not unkind, gesture. She crossed one leg over the other with practiced ease.

He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. The castle groaned softly. A corner of parchment crumpled beneath his thumb.

“What brings you, then? I doubt you're here to admire ledgers.”

She tilted her head. “Can’t a queen enjoy good company without being accused of treachery?”

He hesitated. “In this city? No.”

She laughed. Genuinely. Not the polished giggle of the court, but something real.

“How very Northern of you.”

There was a pause. He sat again, more heavily than before. The chair groaned beneath him. "Enjoying my company, is not very southern of you."

She smiled slightly, amused.

“I did want to speak about the Kayce docks,” she added after a moment. “House Tarly says the overland route would be faster. But their loyalty tends to follow whatever path their feet last marched on.”

“They’re not wrong,” he admitted. “But it would clog the roads inland. Riverland refugees are already swarming the kings roads.”

“Then the coast it is,” she said, brushing a loose curl from her cheek. As she did, her fingers briefly barely touched the back of his chair as she passed. Not lingering. Just enough to make him aware of the space between them.

“I defer to your judgment,” she added.

“That’s... rare,” he said, watching her more closely now.

“What is?”

“The previous Queen tended to argue more.”

She turned toward the fire, a softer smile on her lips. “I am not Cersei, Lord Stark. I find you more than capable of ruling the realm, I have no decide to fight with you. Besides, most of the court already sees me as a no more than a delightful ornament. I’d rather you find me useful.”

“You are,” he said, slower this time. “Very.”

“Careful,” she teased. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It was.” For a moment, neither spoke.

The fire cracked softly. “You always sit like that,” she said eventually. “Rigid. Braced. Like the chair might betray you. I was not kidding when I said it seems you’re afraid of me.”

“I prefer to be prepared.”

“For what? Attack? In your own solar?”

“In King’s Landing?” he said dryly. “Yes.”

She turned slightly, brown eyes on him now. “What would I have to do to get you to relax?”

He met her gaze.  “You’re not trying to get me to relax. You’re trying to unsettle me.”

Her smile deepened, smug and quiet. “Now I wouldn't say that." She paused. "Am I succeeding?”

He didn’t answer fast enough to lie.

“I don’t mean any harm,” she said softly, leaning her elbow against the armrest, fingers drawing idle patterns along the wood. “I’m not here with knives or schemes. I’m not Cersei.”

“I never thought you were.”

“But you still look at me like I am plotting your downfall.”

“I look at everyone that way here,” he said, quieter now. “It’s not personal.”

Margaery studied him for a long moment, then stood. She didn’t move to leave just walked toward the window slit, dusk streaking red and gold across her silhouette. “You’re very good at not wanting things,” she said, voice low.

He frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“Exactly.” She turned again, skirts whispering as she moved, and drifted back toward the door. Her hand slid across the table in passing, fingertips grazing the edge of a scroll. She didn’t look at him. “Thank you for your time, Lord Stark. I’ll let you return to your reports before I scare you too much.”

He stood again, out of habit, but slower this time. The pain in his knee made him grimace, the stiffness in his joints didn’t mask it. “You’re always welcome,” he said. Then, after a beat, a breath, he added, “Margaery.”

She paused at the door. The name hung there, like something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say. She glanced back, just once, her expression unreadable, but her eyes gleamed in the firelight. Then, with a shallow dip of her head, she murmured: “Much better.” And she was gone.

Margaery Tyrell II

Queen’s Chambers, Red Keep

Evening into Morning The fire had burned low. Only the embers glowed now, casting faint gold against polished floors and silk-hung walls. The scent of lavender lingered in the air her perfume, her bath, the oil the handmaidens rubbed into her skin. The scent of a queen. The scent of someone else.

Margaery sat at her writing desk, a half-drained decanter of Arbor red beside her, her bodice unlaced and her hair fallen loose. The quill in her hand wavered slightly as she stared at the parchment. One line. Three versions. All crossed out.

Dearest Sister-Dearest Sansa— Lady Sansa— Sansa—

Nothing felt right. She dipped the quill again and forced the words:

You once told me your father was the most honorable man you'd ever known. I wonder if you knew what that truly meant.

Her breath caught as she wrote

He is kind to me. And cold. And cautious. And I think the coldness is the kindest part of all.

A pause. Her hand hovered, wanting to go further.

I find myself waiting for his words. Measuring the ones I speak in return. And when he says nothing at all, I carry that silence like a token. Because still, he s-

She let the quill fall. The room was too still. The night too loud. She stood and crossed to the hearth. Without ceremony, she held the letter over the flame. At first it smoked, edges curling back like a dying leaf. Then it caught. The words turned black. Disappeared. She watched it burn to nothing, then sat at the window seat, curled in on herself, chin resting on her knees. The city outside was still glowing lanterns along the alleys of Flea Bottom shimmered like dying stars, and the bells from the Great Sept had long since stopped ringing.

Somewhere behind her, their was a velvet box with a new gift from Robert’s unopened. She had meant to throw it in the fire too, but that required more energy than she had left. She did not have the strength to do anything else, but stare out the window.

The light was soft and grey when she woke, there was an ache behind her eyes, her limbs felt like they’d been holding tension all night. She hadn’t made it to bed. Her dress still hung off one shoulder. Her cheek was lined from where it had pressed against the stone window ledge.

A servant knocked once at the chamber door, then entered softly. When she stirred, the girl murmured, “Shall I prepare your bath, Your Grace?”

Margaery didn’t answer. She nodded, eyes distant. She remained seated until the girl left the water steaming in the basin. Then she rose, removed the rest of her dress with shaking fingers, and stepped in. The warmth stung at first. Then dulled. She stared at her reflection in the copper basin’s rippled surface.

A queen. That’s what they saw. That’s all they saw. She did not feel like a queen. She did not feel like she commanded respect. She did not even feel like a woman, certainly not a person.

She was a vessel. A Tyrell with good hips and better manners. A smile in silk. A polished heirloom. Her value was her looks, her ability to to tie her fathers coin to a faltering realm. To open her legs, to one day provide anheir, to be the good Queen Cersei was not.

Her father looked at her like he was assessing value.

Even Loras had changed.

Only Garlan and Willas, perhaps, still saw her, but she never saw them.

And of course Ned Stark...

And yet even he, especially he, would not look at her the way she wanted.

Margaery tilted her head back and let the heat rise around her throat, up to her jaw, until it stung her eyes. She told herself it was the steam that made them burn. She hadn’t wept in years. Not truly. Not since her wedding night. Not since the first bruises From Robert flowered across her skin, power taught her that crying was just another vulnerability to be used by someone else.

But this morning, something cracked. It started with her chest tightening. Then her breath catching. Then her hands clenching into fists beneath the water. Then the sound came sharp and involuntary, half-sob, half-laugh. “What am I doing?” she whispered. She covered her face with both hands. Her shoulders trembled. “This is madness,” she said again, to no one. “I’m married. I’m Queen. He’s cold as snow and twenty years older, and he looks at me like I’m an obligation. Not even an irritation. Just… formality.” Another breath, ragged now.

“I’m not even trying to seduce him. That would be easier. I just want,” Her voice broke. “I just want someone to see me.” Her voice fell into silence. Her hands dropped into the water.

After a long time, she rose from the bath. The water rippled as she stood, leaving her bare and pale in the rising dawn light. She dried herself slowly, carefully, as if each movement helped restore the armor. The handmaid returned silently and helped lace her into a pale green gown, one with sleeves this time, more modest. No gold clasp. No plunging neckline. She chose no jewels. At the dressing table, she caught her own gaze in the mirror. Her hair, now pinned, back, lips pale, eyes red at the edges.

She wanted to be seen by the court, she did not want to be leered at. She could not take it today. "I will not," she murmurred.

The sun had risen fully now. Another day of court. Another performance. Margaery would smile, she would play her part, as she always did. The corridors were already alive by the time she left her chambers. Servants rushed with scrolls and platters, stewards called orders down echoing halls, and somewhere far below, a bell rang out the hour marking the time. She was late, and people would notice, they would whisper, and her heart beat faster in her chest because of it.

Margaery walked with practiced grace, hands clasped before her, chin lifted just enough to signal composure. Her modest gown brushed faintly against the stone floor. Two Gold Cloaks bowed as she passed. She gave them a polite nod, eyes distant. They stared longer than they should have as they held the door for her.

She wishes she didn’t care.

When she entered the chamber, they were already mid-discussion.

“…With the Riverlands in chaos, someone must restore order,” Tyrion Lannister was saying, voice sharp with wine-fed irritation. “The Brackens and Blackwoods are pressing on each other’s territory. A show of force would settle it.”

Stannis, already scowling, grunted in reply. “We don’t have men to spare. Let the Riverlands handle their own squabbles unless they spill blood.”

“I see the Queen has joined us,” Grand Maester Pycelle croaked, half-rising from his seat, more ceremony than sincerity.

Margaery inclined her head. “Forgive my delay.”

Only Ned rose fully. Of Course he did. Her gaze met his briefly. He held it. Only a second too long, but long enough. Something in his eyes tried to read her. Perhaps he saw it, how tight her posture was today, how rigid her composure. Perhaps not.

She moved to her usual seat, directly across from him. Robert was absent, as usual. She almost sighed in relief.

Tyrion Lannister gave her a salute with his goblet. “Your Grace. Always a delight to see the realm in better hands than ours.”

She offered him a thin smile. “One does what one can.”

The council resumed. Grain shipments, unrest near Saltpans, Crown debts, border friction in the Riverlands. Margaery listened, contributed when asked, nodded when required. But all the while, she felt like her mind was moving through fog. Her skin felt tight. Her mouth tasted of ash, though she hadn’t had breakfast. Every movement, every smile, every glance was weighed and measured before she allowed it. When Ned spoke, she found herself tracking the rhythm of his voice more than the meaning. It was quiet, even, and firm. Never emotional. Never reckless. Just honest, almost to a fault.

And utterly unreachable.

The council adjourned. Lords filtered out in twos and threes, murmuring amongst themselves. Margaery lingered, not out of design, but because her thoughts were slow to reassemble. She turned down the eastern corridor toward the library. She didn't want to return to her chambers. Not yet. But halfway down the corridor, she heard a voice behind her.

“Your Grace.” She stopped. Ned. She turned, smoothing her features into something neutral.

“Lord Stark.” He approached, scrolls still tucked beneath one arm. His expression was unreadable, as always, but there was something else today. Maybe concern.

“You were quiet,” he said simply. Not accusing. Just observant.

She blinked. “I didn’t realize I was required to contribute.” He didn’t smile. “You’re usually… present. Today, you seemed elsewhere.” There it was again, that cursed attentiveness. The one thing she wanted and couldn’t stand receiving from him. Not when it came without warmth.

She held his gaze. “Can a queen not have thoughts she keeps to herself?”

He nodded once. “Of course.”

A pause stretched between them. “I hope you don’t think I’m fragile,” she added quietly. “If I withdraw now and then.”

His brows drew slightly together. “No. I think you carry more than most people realize.”

That almost undid her. She swallowed it down. “Thank you,” she said, almost too softly. Then, sharper: “Was there something else, Lord Stark?”

“No,” he said. “Only… if ever there is, I hope you know you can speak plainly with me.”

She smiled then. It wasn’t her court smile. It wasn’t warm either. It was sad. “Plainly,” she repeated, as if tasting the word. “Yes. That would be nice.” She turned from him before her voice could betray her again. And this time, she didn’t go to the library. She went to the Sept.

Not to pray.

Just to sit in the cool, silent dark where no one asked anything of her. And for a while, she just… breathed.

Her peace was interrupted, by the King's summons.

Kings Solar, Red Keep

The moment she stepped inside, the smell of wine hit her like a slap.

The shutters were drawn. The fire burned low. The air hung thick and heavy, without wind or grace. Robert Baratheon sprawled across a cushioned bench, half undressed. One boot kicked off, the other dangling by the laces. His tunic sagged open over his belly, hair matted with sweat and grease. His beard shone with oil and wine. A plate of half-eaten meat steamed beside him, untouched long enough to congeal. He was between drunk and drowsy, the place he seemed to live now.

Yet when he saw her, he smiled. Wide. Sluggish. Too many teeth. “There’s my little flower,” he drawled, propping himself on one elbow. “You took your sweet time. I was starting to miss that pretty little mouth.”

Margaery kept her face neutral. “You sent for me, Your Grace.” He waved the title away like a buzzing fly. “None of that now. Come here.”

She stepped forward, but not too far. Every movement was deliberate, like walking across a narrow bridge or trying to avoid broken glass. His eyes slid over her, slow and heavy.

“Gods,” he muttered. “You just keep getting prettier. I swear. Every time I look at you, I forget what the fuck I was angry about.”

She offered a polite smile, “That’s kind of you.”

He patted the bench beside him, “Sit. Closer. I won’t bite.” She hesitated. He grinned wider, “Unless you want me to.” Her stomach twisted. But she sat. Not too near. Just enough to seem obedient. He leaned toward her immediately. His hand found her waist grabbing her with broad, clumsy fingers pressing through the silk of her gown. Not passionate. Not affectionate. Just heavy. Robert tended to treat her like furniture, his actions never directed to her, just towards her. “You wore this dress just for me, didn’t you?” he whispered, breath hot near her cheek. “The one with the little dip in front. Just enough to make a man wonder.”

“It’s an old gown,” she said quietly, her voice shook.

“Old?” he scoffed. “Nothing on you’s old. Everything’s ripe. Gods, if I were twenty years younger….” His hand slid down to her knee, rubbing lazy circles. “Do you ever miss it?” he asked suddenly. “Before all this? Before the crown? Just being a girl? Nothing to do but smile and keep your legs shut?”

Her smile thinned. “I was born to duty, Your Grace.”

He snorted. “What a waste. You’d have made a fine little barmaid. Or a whore. The kind men fight over in alleyways. The kind that moans just right.” She stiffened. Her fingers dug into her own thigh beneath the fabric. He didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. “You know,” he continued, breath thick with wine, “when I was your age, I used to dream of women like you. The ones in songs. In silk. With manners like a septa, but with mouths like sin.” His hand drifted higher. She caught it gently but firmly and moved it back to his lap. Masking it as affection.

“I’m yours in name and duty,” she said, soft and soothing. Like taming a restless dog. “And I always will be.”

He blinked. For a moment, something flickered behind his eyes perhaps confusion, maybe. Or the faintest spark of shame. Then he grabbed his goblet and drained it, slamming it back on the table. “Gods, I hate this place,” he muttered. “Scheming rats, every one of them. Whispering, lying, pretending to care.” He flopped backward. The fire cracked beside them. “You should wear red next time,” he added lazily. “That color always reminds me of your cheeks. You know after I’ve had you proper. All flushed and messy, like a bitch in heat.” His hand was moving again this time up her inner thigh. Squeezing.

She rose. Quick. Controlled.

He blinked. “What’s the rush?” “I have shipments to coordinate. Errands to prepare. The council waits.” She curtsied. Flawlessly. “Your Grace.” She turned, praying he wouldn’t stop her. If he rose, if he reached But he only groaned and rolled to his side. “Fine. Run the bloody realm without me. You lot always do.”

She bowed her head, and turned on her heel.

She walked fast.

Not running. Not rushing.

But fast.

Head high. Footsteps light. 

She reached her chambers. Shut the door. Locked it.

Then leaned back against it.

The silence fell all at once thick and smothering. Her breath came sharp. Shallow.

She could still feel the weight of his hand. The press of fingers. The stink of wine and sweat and old meat. The chill of being touched like an object. The heat of being wanted and ignored in the same moment.

She stood there a long time.

Then her legs gave way.

She sank to the floor, slowly, like the act itself hurt.

Arms wrapped tight around her knees. Chin pressed to silk. Back to the cold iron of the door.

She did not sob.

She did not scream.

But when the tears came this time

They didn’t make a sound.

Someone might hear.

Chapter Text

Margaery III

Great Hall, Red Keep

The Great Hall was lit ablaze by chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. The candlelight flickered unevenly, casting golden halos that failed to reach the corners. Braziers burned along the walls, pumping out smoke and heat. The stained-glass windows behind them gleamed in red, green, and gold.

The hall was crowded well past comfort. Every table, every alcove, every shadowed arch was filled. Margaery recognized many of the faces, not the powerful lords who made decisions in council chambers or command tents, but the ones who had survived wars through silence, flattery, and well-timed allegiance. Second sons with new titles, aging bannermen with younger wives, distant cousins of extinct houses now desperate to prove themselves useful. They smiled too easily and bowed too deeply, loud with praise and soft with threats. The real power had stayed away. What remained was noise, vanity, and the stink of ambition. She knew most of their names. She had made it her duty to, knowing which men could be humored and which must be watched had become her second profession.

The scent was indulgent and overwhelming. Roasted meats and stewed fruits competed with rose oil and clove. Wine stained the floor, ugar clung to the air and the sweetness was suffocatung. There was always too much food, too decadent, piled high in vulgar excess. Every sweet, every meat, every dish Robert Baratheon could gorge himself on was present in abundance.

Once, Lannister banners had adorned this hall crimson and gold, arrogant and unsubtle in their claim to power. They were gone now. Burned, perhaps, or buried in the Sept with the late Queen Cersei. In their place were Baratheon black and gold, stags rearing proudly on freshly dyed fabric that still smelled of wool and dye. The stitching glittered with fine embroidery from the Reach.

Paid for by her family.

Despite her father’s boasts of Tyrell influence, there were no golden roses in the hall. No heraldry, no sigils, no flourishes. Only her. 

Her family had bought these banners. They had bought the tapestries, the wine, and the feasts. They had purchased the illusion. In exchange for a crown on her head, they were holding up Seven Kingdoms too hollow to support themselves.

She adorned herself with roses instead, cream silk traced with green, a delicate ivy pattern curling along the sleeves like vines over a grave. The gown was high at the neck with long sleeves fitted tightly to her wrists. It was modest, decent, and unthreatening. A garment designed to reassure the old men of court and leave them nothing to comment on but how well it fit.

But they would still leer. And they would still whisper. And they would still claim she asked for it.

Yet no one could say the Queen wore anything less than a perfect mask.

She was the Queen they expected, te one they had asked for, but not the one they respected.

She moved through the room in silence, exchanging pleasantries with the lords of the Stormlands many of whom had once called for Renly. She passed the Reachmen who had once schemed to marry her to Joffrey. She nodded politely to the smattering of Northern, Riverland, and Crownland lords who had been deemed worthy of an invitation.

These were the men who had fought and bled for Robert since the first days of Cersei’s fall. Or the War of Three Kings. Or whatever name the singers had assigned to it.

Like her, they had mostly been forgotten.

Robert did not reward loyalty. He rewarded song, wine, and the women who moaned at the right volume. She was not that gifted at faking it, mayhaps if she did she would have earned a tapestry or two. Instead she got the roam the hall without a friend, and look around the room.

Stannis stood alone in a far corner, speaking with an onion Knight. Renly and Loras whispered in a corner. Tyrion held court with the Westerland hostages who had spread through the capital like rot. The section of Blonde was notably understaffed compared to the other corners.

Margaery did not speak to anyone, she did not wish to.

The music washed over her in waves, sweet and heavy. A man at the next table joked, “We’ll have to marry Reachmaids just to eat if the harvests fail.”

Polite laughter followed.

She smiled, thin and hollow, her gloves strained as her fingers curled in her lap.

The bard began a new song, The Maiden of Autumn. It was too wistful for this room. A ballad of Sansa Stark and Willas Tyrell, romantic and simple yet it left her bitter every time she heard it.

“She looks pale,” someone whispered nearby. Her heart skipped a beat as she felt eyes on her. 

She reached for her goblet of watered wine taking a sip giving her just enough time to breathe. It felt too heavy or perhaps too light, and when her hand slipped the goblet clanged against the polished table.

Conversation faltered. Heads turned.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “The goblet slipped.”

She smiled again, it looked normal because of course it was fake. When had she become like this? When had a single misstep been enough to make her shake? Her gloves were creased now, wrinkled awkwardly. The silk beneath her bodice felt tight as armor. She could not breathe. She needed to sit.

“To our Queen!”

Lord Edric Rykker of Duskendale stood at his table, his voice full and bright. She did not know him, a third son, but a new Lord. Young and untested, he had not fought in the war. He wore black velvet stretched over broad shoulders, silver rings catching the firelight. His goblet was raised. His grin was polished.

Margaery felt a flicker of hope.

A toast?

She straightened, her panic faded and her heart slowed. 

Rykker’s voice carried. “To the Queen, a jewel of the realm. Golden and still, like the sun waiting on the horizon. It’s no small feat to follow another woman’s crown. Yet here she is, wearing it so perfectly we scarcely notice the difference.”

A ripple passed through the room, soft laughs and half-hidden smirks spread like fire.

Margaery’s lips stayed curved, but her fingers dug into her palm.

“She’s done what most women wouldn’t dare. Stepped into another’s place, smiled through it all, and made us almost forget,” Rykker said. He took a drink, then added, “And if the crown sits a little crooked......well, it’s not the crown most of us are looking at.”

Everyone turned torward her.

Even Rykker, mid-grin, paused. He seemed to realize he might have gone too far.

But the court was not watching her.

They were watching him.

She looked behind her, to Robert.

His eyes squinted at her, then to Rykker heavy with wine and confusion.

Then he laughed.

A loud, bellowing sound from deep in his chest. He slapped his thigh, wine sloshing from his goblet.

“She’s not made of glass, lads. Let her hear it!”

The court took its cue.

Laughter exploded, loud and shameless.

Men guffawed. Women tittered behind their hands. A knight snorted wine through his nose. Someone clapped at the lower tables.

Margaery turned to Rykker.

Anxiety gave way to fury. To hatred. Not to him, but to everyone in this godforsaken kingdom. 

If she had held a goblet, she might have thrown it.

Instead, she walked toward him, the laughter fading with every step. She stopped in front of him. Her voice rang clear across the Hall.

“Lord Rykker,” she said. “You do not flatter me. You belittle me. And worse, you think I will thank you for it.”

Her gaze held his until he looked away.

“I am not your replacement Queen. I am your Queen. And next time you forget that, make sure you are already walking out the door. You will not disrespect me again.”

Rykker’s smile vanished. His eyes darted to Robert. His mouth opened.

“Your Grace, surely you don’t mean—”

He never finished.

Two men moved from the edge of the room.

Grey cloaks with broad shoulders with Direwolves ebroidered on their cloaks.

Stark men.

They did not speak.

They walked through the court without ceremony.

One placed a hand on Rykker’s arm. The other on his shoulder placing firm hands on his shoulder. 

Rykker glanced around the room, bewildered. No one dared meet his eyes. None of the lords who laughed rose to stop them, mone of the knights stood, and those who had joined the laughter would not share the punishment.

The doors opened.

Closed.

Whispers bloomed immediately.

“Stark men.”

“The Hand’s men.”

Margaery turned to Robert.

His grin was gone. His cup was empty. His eyes were dull with wine and confusion once more.

“I am retiring for the evening,” she said, her voice was calm. “The court may continue.”

No one followed her.

Godswood, Redkeep

The godswood was unnervingly still.
Moonlight spilled through the weirwood’s pale branches, silvering the grass and making the carved face seem to watch her. The air was cool and damp, smelling of wet leaves and stone a clean, sharp contrast to the heat and stench of the Great Hall.

Margaery followed the path to the pool, her steps slowing as the water came into view. She stopped at the bank, reached down, and slipped one foot from its soft green slipper. Then the other. The grass was cool under her bare soles, each blade bending and springing back as she moved.

She lowered herself to sit at the water’s edge, the stone lip cold beneath her palms. For a moment she only sat there, skirts pooling around her, the faint ripple of the water catching the moonlight. Then she gathered the silk in both hands, hesitating. Was this indulgence or just a child’s trick for calming fear?

She lifted her hem slowly to her knees, the fabric sliding over her skin with a soft hiss. Cool air skimmed her calves, raising gooseflesh. She had not done this in years not since she was a girl in Highgarden, sneaking away to the lily ponds when she felt small or afraid. The shock of the cold water had always steadied her. She eased her feet in now, the chill biting instantly, rippling out in perfect circles.

It was improper, undignified, and if anyone saw it there would be whispers before morning. The thought made her pause, but she was past caring.

Bootsteps crunched over damp grass. A twig snapped.

She froze, instinctively tightening her grip on her skirts. Ned’s shadow lengthened beside her, and when she glanced up, his eyes flicked briefly to her legs before turning deliberately to her face. Of course he wouldn’t linger. Of course he wouldn’t give her that.

For a moment, she considered letting her hem fall, tucking her feet back beneath the silk. Instead, she kept it where it was. If he wanted to look, he could. She would give him the chance.

“You didn’t even pause,” Ned said from behind her. “Straight past the gates, into the gardens.”

She drew her feet from the water, droplets tracing cool lines down her skin, curling her toes into the grass but leaving her hem where it was. “Did you follow me?”

“No.”

Her mouth curved faintly. “Coincidence, then?” She turned just enough to see him in the shadows. “Everyone knows the great Eddard Stark would never lie.”

“Arya followed you,” he said. “I followed her. She is a fan of yours now, I fear.”

That almost drew a smile from her. “She should pick better heroes.”

“She would disagree.”

Margaery gave a short laugh, sharper than she intended. “I am not what girls like her should admire.” She looked down at her bare toes curling into the grass. She wondered if he thought her careless, or merely human.

“You saw the way they looked at me,” she said after a long moment.

“I did.”

“I humiliated Rykker. Made him a fool in front of everyone. Then your men walked him out like a criminal. Roberts laughter died, and I know him. The next time we are alone, he will remember. And so will they.”

“You stood your ground, it was the right thing” he said.

“Was it?” Her voice sharpened. “Is that all you have to say?” She shook her head before he could answer. “Easy for you to say. You are Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, Hand of the King. No one tells you to smile for the crowd. No one measures your worth by the cut of your gown. Last winter, when you told Lord Rowan in council that his tariffs were strangling the Riverlands, they called you principled. When I told Lord Tarly the same about the Reach’s hoarding of grain, they said I was shrill. The last time I spoke without a smile, they whispered the crown was making me bitter.”

His jaw tightened. “It was the right thing.” He kneeled near her, close enough to touch her. "It is not fair to you," he admitted."

“It never is.” She glanced at him, then to the heart tree, its white bark glowing under the moon. “Maybe I went too far. I wanted them to remember I am not Cersei’s shadow. But maybe it is better to be remembered that way.”

“Is that how you want them to see you?” Ned asked quietly.

She was silent for a moment. “I do not know,” she admitted. “Tell me honestly, and do not spare me, what should I have done?”

“I would have not done anything differently, but it should not have gone that far,” he said without hesitation. "It would not be allowed to be go that far, if I was the target."

“No. No one would dare insult you like that,” she murmured. “Robert would have had their head.” She looked away. “Did you see Robert’s face when I spoke? I ruined his laughter, stole the night from him. I keep replaying it, he looked at me like I was Cersei. I keep imagining what he will say, what he will do.” Her toes flexed against the grass again, cold now, damp blades sticking to her skin. “I am pacing the scene in my head like a caged bird.”

“Robert will understand,” Ned said.

She looked at him sharply. “Do you actually believe that? After everything?”

He was silent for a long moment, then came to sit on a fallen tree near the pool. The moonlight caught in the silver threads of his hair. “I wish I did. It is how it should be.”

“I am married to a man who does not say my name unless it is to mock me. Who does not care if I am cold or afraid. I have learned to smile, to be still, to survive my own court. But tonight…” Her voice hitched. “Tonight I did not want to survive. I wanted to fight. And I do not know where that leaves me now.”

“You are not wrong to want more than survival,” he said.

She looked at him then, truly looked. “You are the only one who notices. The only one who might want me to have more than that.”

For the first time that night, her shoulders eased. “If I come to you again like this, will you tell me if I am making a fool of myself?”

“You are not,” he said.

“You did not answer the question.”

“I will tell you,” he said at last. “If I think you are wrong, I will tell you.”

The wind moved through the leaves above, scattering moonlight over the pool. She moved closer, close enough to feel the faint warmth of him. “Good. Then I think I will keep talking to you.”

He didn’t move away.

They sat in silence, the carved face of the weirwood watching, the pool between them glinting silver. Her bare feet pressed into the grass again, the cold seeping in until she could no longer feel her toes. The laughter of the hall felt far away now, replaced by something quieter, heavier, and harder to name.

When she made a move to leave, he stayed seated, he watched her as she stepped past him to leave, her sleeve brushed his. 

Queens Chambers, Red Keep

The chamber smelled of wine, wax, and fading roses.
The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The last of the feast’s perfume still lingered spice, lavender, and sweat. There was a half-finished goblet of wine on the table had gone untouched since the early morning.

Olenna Tyrell was already waiting, seated by the hearth as if she had claimed the room hours ago. Her cane rested beside her, unused. Her sharp eyes tracked the candlelight like it might give something away.

Margaery stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind her. The chill of the godswood still clung to her skin, her bare feet whispering against the rug. The hem of her gown was faintly damp from the grass, and her slippers dangled from her fingers.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

Olenna’s gaze flicked from Margaery’s bare toes to her damp skirts, then back to her face. “You're not supposed to be anywhere dressed like that.”

Margaery crossed to the table, touched the rim of her cup, debated on taking a drink, then let her hand fall. She still felt like a ghose, an ache from the cold water on her skin, the way Ned Stark’s eyes had flicked deliberately to her face instead of lingering where she’d given him the chance. She felt far from human in this moment.

“I take it you heard.”

“Darling, the walls in this castle are thinner than the courtiers’ spines. I heard Rykker’s insult, your reply, and every breathless whisper that followed.”

Olenna’s gaze sharpened. “It was Stark’s men who took him out.”

Margaery nodded. “Yes.”

“Not the gold cloaks.”

“No.”

“Not the Kingsguard.”

“No.”

“That’s troubling,” Olenna said.

“I didn’t ask them to move,” Margaery replied.

“But they did. Without orders. For you.”

The words hung heavy between them.

“You spoke with him after,” Olenna said.

“In the godswood.”

Olenna studied her a moment longer. “And?”

Margaery hesitated. Her throat tightened. “I told him things I’ve never said aloud. That I’m tired of surviving. That I want to fight. That he’s the only one who notices me.”

“Did he touch you?”

“No.”

“Did he try?”

“No.”

Olenna’s voice stayed even. “Do you want him to?”

The question landed like a blow. Margaery felt her heart kick against her ribs. She could lie, but Olenna would see it in an instant. She thought of the way she had kept her hem lifted, waiting for him to look.

“Yes.”

Olenna inhaled slowly, not quite a sigh. “Then you might be in trouble after all.”

“I’m tired of being forgotten,” Margaery said. "I am nothing but a symbol.”

“You’re not just a symbol,” Olenna said. “You’re the Queen.”

“No. I’m the substitute. The second draft. The afterthought.”

Olenna’s mouth twitched faintly. “The first draft is dead, girl. Which makes you the only version that matters. Stop speaking as though you were an accident.”

“They all saw what happened,” Margaery said quietly. “And Robert just laughed.”

“Robert has always been useful for only one thing,” Olenna said. “And he hasn’t done even that in some time.”

Margaery gave a dry, almost bitter laugh. “You think I was right to stand up?”

“I think you were strong not to cry,” Olenna said. “And wise not to scream. But you’ve made yourself visible, and that means every set of teeth in this castle will be looking for where they can bite. The moment you embarrassed Rykker, you marked yourself as a threat. And threats are dealt with.”

Olenna rose, picking up her cane but not leaning on it.

“I’ll write to Willas before dawn. A sealed rider.”

Margaery frowned. “What will you say?”

“That I want my own men inside these walls. Not your father’s. Not the court’s, and not Starks”

“You think it’s coming to that?”

“I think it already has.”

Olenna moved to the door, then paused. “If you want Stark’s hand on your skin, you had better reconsider. Because that is a dangerous game, and lets not even get into this late night visit in the woods.”

The words lodged in Margaery’s chest. She did not answer. She wasn’t sure if the heat she felt was defiance or the uneasy knowledge that Olenna was right.

And then the Queen of Thorns Rose, and she was gone, leaving only the cooling embers behind.

Chapter Text

Robert Baratheon I

The light was too bloody bright.

Robert squinted against it, cursing under his breath. The pounding in his skull was steady as a war drum, each thud sending a dull ache behind his eyes. His gut felt sour, his arms heavy as if he’d been wearing plate in his sleep. It was familiar, it was painful, there was only one solution.

He reached for the wine before the bread, draining half the cup without tasting it.

The latch clicked. Petyr Baelish slipped in without waiting to be invited, the same way he always had. Lord of Harrenhal now, no longer Master of Coin, though somehow still underfoot in every corner of the Red Keep.

“Rough night, Your Grace?” Baelish’s tone was mild, his eyes anything but.

Robert grunted. “Same as any feast.”

“Mm.” Baelish moved toward the table, placing one hand on the back of a chair like he owned it. “Not every feast ends the way this one did. You don’t often see a young lord dressed down in front of half the court. You certainly don’t see the Hand’s men doing the taking.”

Robert’s lip curled faintly. “I was there, Baelish. I saw it.”

“And I imagine you noticed the whispers that followed,” Petyr went on smoothly, “that it wasn’t the gold cloaks. Not the Kingsguard. Just Lord Stark’s men, moving without a word from you coming to their Queens aid.”

Robert reached for the wine again. “Ned’s always been keeping order. Thinks it’s his duty, its why I have him the job”

“Even in your hall?” Baelish tilted his head.

“Especially in my Hall,” Robert grunted.

“After the hall cleared,” Petyr continued, “your Queen went to the godswood. Radiant as ever, she didn’t leave that way though. Ned Stark followed behind her, and when she left the woods her skirts were damp, barefoot, she looked disoriented from what I heard.”

Robert set his goblet down hard. “You telling me this is truth, or just your usual snake’s work?”

“You can ask anyone who was there,” Baelish said easily. “Ask the ones who hate me most, if you like. They’ll tell you the same. My version’s the gentlest you’ll hear, its why I thought it best you hear from me. Some are saying she left the godswood flushed, with Stark following like a man leaving a lover’s bed.” He let that settle before adding, almost idly, “You’ve should hear what they are whispering about you.”

Robert’s jaw tightened. “Say it.”

“It gives me no pleasure to say this,” Lord baelish smiled hoyfully, “Robert Barathon the Stag King, once crowned thrice cucked.” Robert threw his goblet against the wall, it shattered. He breathed heavily as he stood, his imposing height towering over Baelish who did not look afraid. “They Say the Hand already rules the realm, why shouldn’t he fuck your wife?“

“Out!” He demanded.

“Truth matters less than what sticks, Your Grace,” Baelish said, stepping back toward the door. “And this one will stick unless you remind them who rules here…I suppose you could remind them who she belongs to as well.”

The door closed behind him with that soft click Robert had always hated too quiet, too controlled, like the man never did a thing in earnest.

Robert stayed at the window, staring out at the pale sprawl of King’s Landing below. His grip tightened around the goblet until the silver bit into his palm.

Truth mattered less than what stuck. Gods help him, the little snake wasn’t wrong.

He finished the wine in one long pull, the bitter aftertaste clinging to the back of his throat, and reached for the flagon again. The second cup went down faster than the first. By the third, his head was warm, the ache in his temples dulled just enough for the other kind of pain to rise.

He told himself it was Baelish’s game stir the pot, let it boil, see who scalds. But then he saw it in his mind: Margaery in the godswood, moonlight on her hair, bare feet in wet grass. Skirts damp. And Ned behind her. Always Ned.

He thought of the way she looked at him in council not at her King, but at her Hand. The small, sharp way her mouth would curve when Ned spoke, like she was in on some joke the rest had missed.

Robert poured more wine. The burn in his gut felt better than the thought of their faces.

He could still hear the laughter in the Great Hall last night his own among it and how it had died when she cut Rykker down. His men had moved before his, for her. Ned’s men.

Robert paced, the floorboards creaking under his weight. The limp in Ned’s step echoed in memory. He imagined it now, coming down the corridor toward the Queen’s door.

By the time he drained the last of the goblet, he’d decided Baelish was right. Truth didn’t matter. What mattered was the look in her eyes, the talk in the court, and the fact that his Hand had been in the godswood with his Queen under moonlight. The fact the realm was whsipering about it.

Robert slammed the cup down hard enough to tip it, wine spilling across the table. “Bring him,” he told the guard at the door. His voice was low, steady. “Bring Ned Stark to me. Now.”

The door clicked shut behind Ned Stark. Robert didn’t have to turn to know it was him the sound of the uneven footfalls gave it away. The limp had been there since the duel with the Lannisters, the only flaw in the otherwise “perfect” Hand.

Robert stayed where he was, framed by the morning light, his doublet hanging open, belly out for the world to see. The goblet hung loose in his hand, though his knuckles had whitened around the stem without him noticing.

“She thinks she’s clever,” he muttered. “Your northerners seemed to think so too, seeing as how they ran to her defense.”

Ned’s voice was steady. “She was mocked in your hall. You laughed.”

“It was a jest.”

“She’s your Queen.”

Robert’s shoulders sagged slightly, but his eyes stayed fixed on Ned searching, measuring. Baelish’s words crawled through his skull.

“So was the last one,” Robert said. “That didn’t mean much in the end, did it?”

He turned. His face was bloated, eyes rimmed red, but his stare was unblinking. “You know what Cersei did before I killed her? She cried. She begged.”

Ned said nothing, though disbelief flickered across his face a flash, then gone.

Robert gave a hollow laugh. “She asked me to understand. Like that would unmake the lies. The bed warmings. The bastards.” His words slurred just enough to betray how early he’d started drinking.

He dropped into the chair by the fire, drained the goblet, poured more.  “That war burned everything. Her. The court. Half the damned country.” His gaze flicked up. “Burned your wife too, didn’t it?”

Ned’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.

Robert leaned forward, his eyes locked on Ned. “And now my new Queen spends her nights in the godswood with you. Moonlight in her hair. Skirts hitched just high enough to wet her knees. You not far behind. That’s what they’re whispering.”

Ned’s brow furrowed, the disbelief back. “You’re listening to whispers now?”

“I’m listening to the same thing I’ve seen since the day I wed her the way she looks at you.” Robert’s voice dropped, heavy and deliberate. “So tell me, Ned… did you take my wife like you took my crown?”

The disbelief hardened into wounded pride. “I’m not Jaime.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Robert said. “But maybe she hopes you are.”

“I’ve been loyal,” Ned said, stepping forward, voice tightening, though there was still restraint in it. “To you. To the realm.”

“Aye. Loyal. Respected,” Robert said. “They follow you like dogs. Not just the Queen everyone acts like the realm’s already yours.”

“I don’t want your crown.”

“You don’t have to,” Robert said flatly. “They’ve given it to you anyway. In glances. In whispers. You think you could be a better king than me, do you? You think you could do better?”

Ned was silent, he tilted his head. "Don't you?"

“I am the King,” Robert said, but it came out softer than he meant. Almost uncertain. “You remember what happened to the last Queen who lied to me, don’t you? The last traitors whose heads left those battlements?”

Ned’s eyes narrowed. “I remember everything. I remember who won those wars for you.” He stepped closer. “You are my brother, Robert. I have been loyal, but never weak. If you ever think to name me traitor again, Robert, say it with a sword in your hand not a bottle.”

The room went still. Robert stared at him, fingers clenched so hard around the goblet his hand ached.

Then he stood slowly, walked to the table, and refilled it. His hand shook just enough for the wine to ripple.

Ned walked out.

Robert didn’t call him back.

Queens chambers

The shutters were half-closed, letting ribbons of warm light cut across the stone floor through golden silk. The air smelled faintly of rosewater, beeswax, and the cool trace of her bath.

She sat at the vanity, back straight, hair falling in soft brown waves as she drew the brush through it in long, unhurried strokes. Pins lay in perfect rows before her neat, sharp, and shining like tiny daggers.

Robert stood in the doorway, watching.

She didn’t turn. In the mirror, her face was calm, almost vacant until her lips shifted just slightly, the faintest curve, as if she were testing a smile. Practicing it.

Perfect. Polished. Rehearsed. The smile she showed him. The smile she showed the court.

He closed the door, the latch clicking shut. He leaned against it, arms crossed, watching her reflection. He knew how he looked tired, unshaven, hair mussed from sleep and drink. Less like a king, more like a man already losing his crown.

He didn’t want to stay quiet.

Margaery rose the moment she noticed him, smoothing her skirts as if wiping away an imagined crease.

“Your Grace,” she said carefully. Her voice was light but not warm. Was that a tremor? Did she speak this way with Ned? Robert doubted it.

He didn’t answer. Just let the silence stretch, watching the way her fingers laced together in front of her.

At last, he spoke.

“They say you spend a great deal of time with Lord Stark.”

Her chin lifted. “He is your Hand. I seek his counsel.”

Robert pushed away from the door. “Counsel,” he echoed, the word tasting sour. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

His voice was low, too low, which made her straighten further.

“I’ve seen how you watch him,” he said.

Her breath caught barely but enough for him to see it.

He stepped closer. “And he? He doesn’t look back? Gods, you wish he would. I know Ned he binds himself in honor so tight it strangles him. He won’t dishonor his king… but you wish he’d dishonor you. Say it.”

Her composure cracked, just slightly. “You’re mistaken. I have no desire for Lord Stark.”

Robert smiled, but it was a hard, humorless thing. “Am I? I’ve had two queens. One lied to my face, brought another man’s seed into my bed. The other…” His eyes moved over her, slow. “Stays quiet. Smiles like marble. And whispers with a man who never smiles.”

“I have done nothing to dishonor you.”

“Only because Ned’s too honorable. Don’t wear his honor like it’s your own.”

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the vanity.

“If you believe I’ve betrayed you,” she said, her voice a shade lower, “say it plain.”

Robert took another step forward until her back was almost to the table. “Cersei smiled just like you. Cool. Practiced. Until the end. She lied with every smile. Took another man into her bed. Birthed his bastards in my house. I still remember the day I split her skull open.”

“I haven’t betrayed you,” Margaery whispered.

He leaned down, his breath hot with wine. “No? Then why are you trembling?”

Her voice broke faintly. “Because I don’t know what you want.” She swallowed. “You’re drunk.”

“Not drunk enough.”

His hand rose. She flinched.

For a moment, he didn’t strike. He held his arm there, fingers curled, the air between them tight and still. She wasn’t looking at him she was looking at his hand. Like she’d seen it before. Like she knew what came next.

And he saw that she knew.

Then he struck.

The crack was sharp in the still air. Her head snapped sideways. She caught herself on the vanity. Hairpins rattled and spilled like coins across the floor. A red bloom spread over her cheek.

Robert stepped back, breathing hard, staring at his own hand. “I didn’t mean—”

He stopped. Looked at her again. The second blow came harder, faster. No hesitation.

She dropped to her knees. He meant it. He wanted to. Who was he pretending for? The court already thought him a brute he might as well be one.

She was crying now, one hand over her cheek, the other pressed to the floor to keep herself upright. Blood beaded at her lip.

The scent of spilled wine reached him before he noticed it pooling beside her. A waste.

She got to her feet slowly, head bowed, and crossed to the bed without a word. She sat at its edge, hands folded in her lap, staring at the floor.

Robert began to walk toward her. Each step was deliberate, heavy. The rug muffled his boots, but she still heard him her shoulders drew tighter with each pace. The light from the window dimmed as he loomed over her.

Her breath was quicker now, her chest rising and falling faster. Her fingers twisted together until the knuckles blanched white.

When he stopped in front of her, she finally looked up and he saw it. Not just fear, but something colder: resignation.

She thought he was going to take her.

Right here. Right now.

The skirt of her gown shifted slightly toward her knees as her legs pressed together, her whole body rigid. Her gaze flicked past his shoulder to the far wall, already gone from the moment.

For a heartbeat, the idea tempted him the quickest way to prove she was his. But then the stillness of her face, the absence in her eyes, struck him.

He stepped back, the air between them cooling instantly. “Go to bed,” he said flatly.

She didn’t move.

Robert turned away, poured himself more wine, and drank. Behind him, the bed creaked not with the weight of her lying down, but with her curling in on herself.

He stood there, cup in hand, staring at the dark surface of the wine.

Robert drank again, slower this time, but the taste stayed bitter.