archived

She hadn't meant to eavesdrop, not at first. The hall in questionwas far enough removed from the ballroom ut it was long and prone to echoing. It was all too easy for her to leave the ballroom and hear what was said just around the next corner. Margaery had even been of the mind to ignore the sound and continue on her way but the voices were...familiar. Her steps slowed and softened as she approached the corner and listened.

They were in the midst of a particularly heated argument, though Margaery had come too late to determine what prompted it. In fact, the spat seemed to be near its end as an apology was muttered in Ser Kevan Rowan's sullen voice. No, not an apology. Not exactly. It was a reminder that he had apologized--the 'when' and 'what for' had gone unsaid--though there was little enough remorse to be found between the words. It sounded as though he believed the very conversation beneath him.

Katlin's reply was harder to hear, her voice lower than Margaery had yet heard

"Don't you go and get it twisted. Forgiving is not forgetting."

There was a certain resignation in her tone but a finality as well. Whatever had passed between them was at an end but the Rowan girl clearly had no interest in lightening her brother's conscience in its aftermath.

Margaery, never prone to embarrasssment and decidedly not happy with what she'd heard, let her footsteps go undisguised as she turned the corner and walked straight up to the pair. Kevan saw her first, flinching away from his sister as though struck. Something akin to alarm crossed his features as their eyes met. He had to know she'd heard their quarrel. She was inclined to leave him guessing at 'how much' and watch him squirm with the struggle.

"There you are, Ser Kevan." Her voice remained light, almost airy, but the smile she offered him was honed to an edge. "Lord Tarley has been looking for you--something about an urgent proposition. He's waiting in the western courtyard but not for long, I fear. You could catch him, if you make haste." Kevan glanced around and opened his mouth to question or to argue but Margaery cut him off with finesse. "That way, my lord," she offered, waving her hand toward a heavy door far to their right. He hesitated, regarding her with no small amount of distrust, before dipping his head in a stilted attempt at courtesy and heading in the proffered direction.

Randyll Tarley had departed not half an hour past, quietly and expeditiously as was his way. Margaery saw no reason to inform Ser Kevan of the fact.

His footsteps began to fade and disappeared entirely with the opening and closing of a door. The sound reverberated down the hall for a long moment then left them in silence. Only then did she turn to Katlin, all sharpness in her expression melting away. Her cheeks were flushed--whether from anger or chagrin, it was difficult to tell--and she seemed to watch Margaery with a sense of uncertainty. A few golden curls had escaped the other girl's meticulously styled braids and fallen unartfully into her face. Margaery reached up to gently tuck them back into place, her smile soft and reassuring.

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FAVORITE COLOR:  green, though terracotta is a close second rn

LAST SONG:  dead on arrival by fall out boy

CURRENTLY READING:  fire & blood vol. i (reread); the lotus empire by tasha suri was my most recent first-time read

CURRENTLY WATCHING:  peaky blinders! love the score/soundtrack.

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The dress was lovely.

It was made of a luxurious golden fabric and heavily embroidered with thread in every shade of green, creating twisting vines across the bodice, sleeves, and along the full length of its skirts. Whenever she moved --or even breathed--it gave the vines the illusion of life and growth. Fitting for a daughter of Highgarden and something she was like to wear for harvest celebrations or high holidays.

It was lovely. Beautiful. But it was not her wedding dress.

The gown in question was the result of years of planning, with input from Olenna as well as her parents. Margaery herself had even sat in with a Myrrish fabrican on a number of occasions, critiquing his sketches and making corrections as she pleased. By the end of the venture, she had committed to memory every stitch and adornment.

It was to be made of brocade in the palest of green, it's stitching the same. Freshwater pearls would be attached--lightly on the bodice then heavier along the back of the skirt, where they would be bound together with delicate gold wire into little flowers. The train would be laden with them and require no less than four handmaids to bear its weight. From start to finish, the gown would take six months to complete--not including the time for the fabric to cross the Narrow Sea.

But they did not have six months. They did not even have a week. In four days time, she would be wed wearing a lovely dress. It would still be the wrong one.

She had expected the Red Keep to seem...smaller upon her return. Not by much, perhaps, but the world loomed so large to little children. Surely, maturity of body and mind could only provide clarity or at least perspective from a greater height. Instead, Margaery found that the keep seemed larger, sprawling well beyond the bounds she'd constructed from the remants of fuzzy memories.

It should not have been a surprise. Nearly nine years had passed since she'd been sent back to Highgarden to continue her education. Much and more can change in such a time and the recollection of a girl not-yet ten could hardly be relied upon.

She could only hope it would be one of very few misconceptions. Few enough would be afforded to her at court.

Margaery let the worry, minute as it was, float away as she trailed after her mother down the long corridors of Maegor's Holdfast. She would be properly presented at court on the morrow but this audience with the queen would be her first test of her mettle. Her mother spoke in a quick, quiet manner, uttering reminders that had been writ in ink on her mind long ago. She said nothing, letting the nerve in the older woman's voice pass through her without letting it touch her own resolve. I am ready as anyone is like to be.

They paused at a set of grand double doors and waited as the kingsguard on duty slipped inside to announce them. Lady Alerie took the moment to turn to her daughter, taking her in as though for the first time that day. "You'll be perfect." Her tone was equal parts encouragement and expectation. The door opened and they were being escorted inside before Margaery could think of a response.

The queen's solar was a noisy place. Voices filled the air with laughter and warmth that could not be attributed to the heat of midday. Women chatted happily and moved about in a manner that portrayed absolute ease. At the center of it all was the queen herself.

Before she could take in anything else, her mother ushered her forward at once and made the introduction. Margaery dipped into a curtsy, barely able to catch a glimpse of the queen's face as she cast her eyes down in the proper reverence. She thought her familiar, the planes of her face evoking vague memories of warmth and the sort of kind words spoken only to a child.