@watcherandspooked
She awoke to a small, dimly-lit room and for a horrifying moment, Margaery believed she was back in the Black Cells. A wail half-formed in her throat but it died before a sound could be made. It was too warm and too dry to be the dungeons Cersei had confined her to. She was lying on a bed, too, instead of a hard dirt floor and covered in soft furs in place of a thin, moth-eaten blanket.
Memories came to her then, of her escape and the road to Winterfell and the bandits falling upon her guard when they were weak yet so close to safety. And the cold. Always the cold. She looked around, a glint of gold on the table next to the bed catching her eye. The ring was bulky and ungainly but the rose carved into its face made it a priceless artifact. Grandmother had given it to her for safekeeping, as if she had known the misfortunes that would befall their family, and the last Margaery had seen it, she had lost it to the bandits who took her. surely they had not just returned it.
Movement near the door startled her and she sat up abruptly, pulling her knees to her chest as though it would offer some protection. The man’s face--no, the boy’s--was hard and solemn but not necessarily unkind. That gave her pause, calmed the smallest amount of her rising panic but did not erase it. “Where am I?” Her throat felt raw and dry so her came out rough and strained. “Wh-who are you?”
