AFTER he is seated upon the iron throne, he resolves, he will do his duty to his wife.  he has made promises to himself nightly that this will be the night, and yet he cannot bring himself to do it.  no thoughts of loras, however he might see the brother in the sister’s face, can prepare him for something he is so UNPREPARED to do.  should it not be so simple ??  robert may not have fathered the golden-haired baratheons, but he had fathered many bastards in his wake; even stannis had sired shireen.  renly will have sons, for he must if he is king, but it will happen after the iron throne is rightfully his.

INSTEAD he must make his affections known to his queen in different ways, though he has been like too OBVIOUSLY to favor her brother, he realizes, and the farce must be solidified however much support he does have.  “wife,” he calls, his ever easy smile upon his face as he takes margaery’s hand in his own and dips his head so that he might press a kiss to her knuckles.  “i have gifts for you.  do you care to see them ??”

Daenerys isn’t particularly fond of the north. She finds herself reminiscing about better days -- much... warmer days during her time in Essos. The cold doesn’t bother her as it would another, yet it still pricks her fingertips with chill. Her blood runs hot. She still clamors to a fire for warmth. How long it had been since she feared flame. The red woman told her she is the princess of fire. The one who was promised. She thinks of that memory with a taste of hesitance, a near bitterness as well -- she is the mother of dragons. Mother of monsters, some would call her. She is no saint. 

And yet there are some who still call her mother. Mother, she recalls. The thousands of thousands of throats cheering her name. The only children she can ever have wear crowns of fire. Fire and blood. Dragons plant no trees. Dragons harbor no kindness. Only affection to their allies. Is she the same? She stares into the flickering flames. Her so called allies have been slaughtered for being openly aligned to Daenerys Targaryen, the mother of dragons. Mother of monsters.

Olenna Tyrell had been more than an ally, to Daenerys. She was the closest thing to a mother she ever had -- and how sad is that. She’s been surrounded by men the day she was born. Men who have tried to kill her, men who have loved her and would kill for her. Margaery Tyrell had lived through the atrocities that occured in Kings’ Landing and now resides in the North. Much like the weather, the Starks are cold to Daenerys. Jon is the only one who shows her kindness -- and she supposes that’s only because she supplied them with Dragonglass. And dragons. 

How can she rule a kingdom that doesn’t want to be ruled? They’d sooner hate her than accept a helping hand. Her knuckles rub her lips in thought, her left hand fiddling with the end of her chair. How can she show them that she’s not her father?

“Your grace,” Jorah says. Daenerys’s head rises. Everytime he looks at her he sees something he didn’t before. A million fragmented beauties tucked away on every corner of her face. “Lady Margaery is here to see you.”

A silver brow rises. “Willingly?” she asks. Jorah gives a smile, gray eyes twinkling. She too relents with a smile. “Alright. Send her in.” She stands, the furs draped around her legs falling to the side. She brushes off her dress, somewhat sheepish -- fretting over the way she looks. She wants these people to like her. 

(For @rosebeavty)

They had been on the road for a couple of days now, and Loras had been avoiding speaking to anyone as much as possible. Not that that had been especially difficult. It had been agreed that he would ride in the carriage with their grandmother, and he’d slept for most of their journey so far.

Now, though, they had almost reached Highgarden- they would reach the castle tomorrow. They had made camp for the night, and Loras had decided to have dinner with Margaery, rather than sit apart from everyone else during the meal. Before he could talk himself out of doing it, he took his food- a bowl of broth- and went over to where his sister was sitting.