DO YOU WANT TO BE A QUEEN?

Under the heat of the sun, in a field covered with wildflowers and where the breeze delights in song, two bodies lay interwoven on ivory blankets. Legs tangled up in one another, fingers delicately trailing over each limb. They themselves are blossoming flowers, ever so radiant under the basking sun. In this garden, well tucked away from the prying eyes of others, well protected from judgment, laughter echoes with the dancing of the trees. 

Daphne believed there could be nothing more that could make her happy; none at all but this. It is a rare thing, for sure, to be adored, but it is the rarest of all, to be seen and understood. Margaery sees her, for all that she is. All her hopes, her dreams, her flaws, things that bring her happiness, sorrowful woes. Even upon her debut into the seven kingdoms with the amass of suitors on her beck and call, there was no one else. There was only them. There was only her rose.

She leans forward. The other’s fiery red tresses ensnared in the tips of her fingers. Her scent itself rivaling that of the wildflowers around them. She trails a lingering finger from the other’s arm down to her waist, a curve she could memorize over and over. A gentle sigh escapes her blush coloured lips. "   So what did you think of Lord Kent? He is quite dashing. Though if I do say so myself, he is incredibly daft.  " A wisp of laughter stopped abruptly by her own thoughts. She is daring her own fate, uttering words to gauge the other’s affections. She has an answer she wants to hear. ‘You do not think of him, though. Because you only think of me. Right?’ Nonetheless, her manicured smile returns; curated to perfection. An armour she wears relentlessly. "  If you are to marry I would atleast demand he take history lessons. He is no match for a queen.  "

❛❛ I am no queen yet, ❜❜  It falls somewhere between a teasing reminder and a tepid rebuke, if she were at all capable of the latter when it comes to the darling Diamond of the Reach. Her darling Diamond, Margaery rephrases in her own mind, a touch of smugness lent to the thought. Lord Kent certainly does not get such an honour, does he? Nor should he, fool that he is, and from such a minor noble house. That he even thinks either of them might make for a wife is almost offensive, no matter how pretty a face he happens to be in possession of.

most of them were kind enough—it did not bother her, when they were close enough to her own age to be considered a suitable match, and t’was also an easy enough method to practice how one managed, about court ( oft less dire then more political environs, in that sense. a minor misstep of social graces easily smoothed away by a charming smile and a turn in conversation ) it was romantic, in its way. many merely sought advancement, a place, at her court—at her side, preferably. their sons would be kings and their children dragon riders if the gods were generous and the egg hatched. some who had paid court to her had been sweet, charming, in truth. and though she had long since forsaken the notion of a love match, some, at the least, she could imagine that she would be content with. yet who’s face was true ? who wore an entirely differently one once vows were sworn and lives were bound until death. silver white brows rise and fall, as deft fingers reach to pluck a grape from the plate between where the pair sit - a smile playing at the corners of her lips, “ it is not the most irksome attention i have received, though neither do I believe it is true. i am a direct path to the highest seat in the realm, and pretty to look at, besides, “ she cared not for a groom who saw her as the perfect bride, and did not see her as their future queen. she could not make any man king, for she could not trust any man not to be content in his place as consort. she glances over at the other, tone matter of fact as she says, “ nor do I believe it matters, whom I might choose for myself. it is romantic, for what it is, but none of them shall have my hand if his grace does not wish. “

❛❛ so few of us have the fortune of a perfect match, it is true. ❜❜  she does not speak from a place of personal experience, per se: her own marriage will be in order to advance her house, but for the most part, that is because it is what she wishes. influenced by her grandmother, perhaps, but she does not doubt that if she wished to marry for love, solely for love, she would be permitted to do so –– the same cannot be said for many highborn ladies, and she knows it.

(her own cousin, now queen of the realm, certainly did not have the honour. no matter how she might protest otherwise, margaery can see it in her eyes, in the way her practiced smile falls when she thinks no-one else is looking.)

she had always loved flowers - anything small, near delicate - able to fit neatly in the palm of a hand. hers are not as smooth as a princess' should be, it is no doubt - tiny flecks of white scars where she had been accidentally bitten, likely in the way of whatever may have been trying to move around her. she brushes a strand of hair escaping from it’s pinning back with an idle hand, head lowered as, " they do not pay attention to me, " her voice is soft, " i like it better that way. do i speak nonsense to you ? they do not listen, so i do not tell them. "

uncle.  he  is  barely  that.  perhaps  a  man  in  tales  of  warning,  what  not  to  do.  perhaps  he  is  a  warning  against  northen  men,  how  barbaric  they  could  be,  so  unlike  those  of  the  south,  even  if  jorah  had  proven  himself  as  the  strongest  tournee  at  a  tournament  and  had  gotten  the  favor  of  a  woman,  plain  and  simple.  back  then,  he  had  such  hopes  for  his  second  marriage.  what  a  fool.  but  he  follows  along,  side  by  side  as  they  walk.  "aye,  i  owe  her  plenty.  she  had  helped  restore  some  of  my  own  pride  and  name."

"he  and  I  often  pretend  he  is  not.  war  is  not  kind  to  whelps."  he  thinks  of  his  own  siblings  then,  far  too  young  to  be  under  the  thumb  of  the  horrors  of  wars  and  yet,  all  of  them  had  been  on  their  own  journeys,  suffering.  his  heart  aches  for  them,  and  seeing  grey  wind  now,  it  remindsh  im  that  in  the  end,  they  are  still  young  at  heart.  the  small  gentle  moments  are  rare,  best  to  cherish  them  as  they  are.

 robb  watches  the  direwolf  leave  his  side  and  move  toward  the  young  lady.  he  watches  curiously,  his  direwolf  is  not  known  for  being  a  gentle  creature.  ferocious,  feral  and  with  great  speed,  grey  wind  is  known  as  a  veteran  of  war  despite  his  young  age.  so  he  is  curious,  as  he  trust  his  judgement  regarding  people's  intentions.  it's  only  then  when  the  wolf  shifts  closer  and  lowers  its  head,  so  the  hand  offered  rest  on  the  side  of  his  ear  that  robb  sits  beside  maergery  with  ease.  he  cannot  help  but  to  laugh  breathlessly,  his  powerful  direwolf  disarmed  by  a  young  woman  with  striking  looks  and  southern  charm.  he  finds  it  amusing,  poetic  almost.

grey wind (that's what he called the wolf, moments ago, and she finds herself curious as to how he reached such a name) positions himself closer to her, and a little laugh escapes her at just how similar his behaviour is to the dogs that margaery grew up around. her concerns melt away, then, and she indulges the pup in affection, giving him her sole attention for a moment or two before tearing her gaze away, and directing it towards the lad hiding from the heavens with her. she's heard tales of the young king in the north, be they exaggerations or the simplest of truths, yet it's so strange to think that they all regard the boy sat next to her now.

"can  you  call  it  a  taste  if  it's  broad  and  quite  impressive?"  and  elinor  laughs  briefly,  steps  going  through  the  gardens  at  the  red  keep.  it's  not  home  but  it  would  do  and  some  hot  days  made  her  feel  ease  enough,  like  things  would  all  turn  well.  the  handmaiden  is  a  flirt,  and  she  would  be  more  bothered  about  her  cousins'  words  if  they  didn't  ring  true.  "i'm  just  sayin',  dear  cousin,  not  all  of  us  can  marry  a  prince  or  a  future  king.  my  father  has  a  match  for  me.  .  .but  I  am  young  and  away  from  home."