#ofmargaery.

‘ ah shit. ’  once the ruckus began, jon was once again regretting ever agreeing to come. the lights had gone out when they were still in the kitchens and as the minutes ticked on and people waited for the power to come back, jon had padded around the edges of the room for an exit door or at least an emergency kit with a light source in it. when the cries of panic started, they quickly reached for a chefs knife from the prep table and began opening doors with no abandon, stepping in and feeling around for something identifiable to give them some hint as to where they were. 

‘ i --- ’  jon cuts themselves off from saying anything else. what were they to say, they never lost anyone like that. jon still remembers seeing mrs. tyrell be wheeled out, her body covered respectfully by the stark white sheet from the paramedics. jon came out of courtesy, finding out the location of the funeral from the press. they felt some ... semblance of responsibility for margaery, for mace, for the other tyrells they encountered that night. they bowed their head in respect again, clutching tighter to the bunch of white calla lilies they had prepared.  ‘ here, ’  they held the bouquet out to her,  ‘ i thought i should bring something, at least. ’

her stare is cold as ice, chilling as it bears into margaery, unamused. she says she had never lied but on the contrary, olenna’s simmering paranoia tells otherwise. it’s difficult to be suspicious of your own blood, every maternal instinct inside of you fighting against it, never fathoming the betrayal. it’s worse than death, she thinks. but if she was to be bested by anyone, she would be at the very least bested by someone she trusted so much. she’ll let margaery have it this time. ‘ alright, ’  she finally drawls, setting down her playing cards on the table,  ‘ i fold. ’