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/ 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐭 /
After years of eagerly waiting for her Moonblood, Margaery stood in the grand garden of Highgarden. She had finally blossomed into a woman. Her breasts had grown full and round, her long wavy hair had finally grown to her waist, and her hips had begun to swell with the promise of motherhood. The entire kingdom awaited her father's choice of who she would marry.
Margaery could hear her grandmother's footsteps from a mile away -- the clicking of her heels and the rustling of her dress were unmistakable. The young woman turned toward the sound, her breath caught in her throat. "Grandmother," she breathed. The old woman was flanked on all sides by her handmaidens from houses that were loyal to the Tyrells.
"Goodness, girl, you've bloomed," said Olenna. "You'll make a handsome bride." She turned toward her companions, her voice taking on a sharper edge. "We'll have to find her a husband soon. The late bloomers are always the last to bloom. The sweetest flowers are the first to open, but the truest to their season is the last to wilt." Margaery felt her face grow hot.
Olenna sat down, and servants immediately began gartering to her every need, placing down trays of cakes. "What are these?" she asked the servant boy.
The servant boy, who looked to be no older than 10, looked down at his feet, fumbling with his tunic. "Honey cakes, my lady," he answered, and Olenna scoffed, "I've seen lemon cakes, and these aren't lemon cakes. Take them back." She clicked her fingers and the boy grabbed the tray running with it.
Margaery hesitantly sat beside her grandmother, a woman whom she respected and loved. "I have matters to discuss," she began, "when will I be wed? I know I have suitors lining up throughout the realm."
"Ah yes, all of those suitors," Olenna chuckled, placing her hand on her chin. "You are an asset to any great lord, do you know that child?" She looked over at Margaery and smiled, "You've inherited your mother's beauty, as well as my ambition." She winked.
/ Present /
Margaery sat in her chambers with Wyalla, the maid she got acquainted with, over a couple of days embroidering. It seemed it was all that women did in the north whilst their men fought. "I wonder when they will come back," Margaery said, shaking her head as she chuckled. "I didn't come to North for my husband to be away at all times," she continued.
"The hunting party must be over by now," Wyalla replied, her eyes focused on her knitting. "Most men go to Moletown after a successful hunt."
Margaery smiled a little at the thought of her husband being home. She looked over at Wyalla, furrowing her brows, and asked, "Where's Moletown?"
Wyalla brought up her needle, bringing the thread through it carefully, her lip peeked out from the corner of her mouth in anticipation, as she stared down at it with concentration. "North from here," she told her, "Men who take the black go there to drink and for the brothels."
Margaery scoffed loudly and obnoxiously, "Dayron wouldn't," she said, with a grimace crossing her face. "He made an oath." She shook her head, displeased. "He won't go near a brothel."
Margaery knew that men sometimes took mistresses but Stark men were known for being honourable.
Wyalla looked up at her with a raised eyebrow, thinking her a little odd, but Margaery didn't care. Brow furrowed, her needle still in her hand, but her concentration broke, "so did the men who took the black."
>>
Dayron galloped inside the last hearth's stronghold, his grip on his horse's reins firm. Having withstood the incessant comments about his wife, In fact, he had almost been ready to throttle a soldier, who had the audacity to ask him one question too many.
The Hunt was successful, the hides of the deers they killed laid on the back of some horses. Throughout the ordeal, Greatjon ensured that everyone was drunk. Dayron sipped from a tankard of Bearisland-made Northern Mead.
But all he wanted to do was see Margaery, remembering the times in bed when she was still peacefully sleeping on his chest and he'd stare down on her, admiring her beauty and wondering how a woman like her could love a man like him. He was truly under his wife's spell, and he didn't want to be free from it.
Half of the hunting party decided to go to Moletown or an inn nearby, where they could eat, drink, and be merry, and the other half went back home.
Dayron instantly spotted his smiling wife, who stood outside the keep, her gaze fixed on him. He dismounted and handed the reins to a close stablehand. He rapidly approached her, pulling her into his arms.
He was so happy to be back in her presence and her smell brought her closer; an expensive fragrance she clearly never wanted to be separated from; jasmine and roses. He smiled down at her and leaned down to kiss her; she could taste the wine on his lips as he neared her lips with his and pressed them tightly against hers, invading her with his tongue.
Dayron was pleased, he felt her hands tighten into his tunic, she kissed his chin, hiding her face on his beard. He kissed her on the nose, and she giggled. He leaned back, smiling down at his wife's face, he was so glad that nothing had changed. Margaery's hands left his tunic and buried themselves in his cloak, the happiness in her eyes turning to lust. Without any words, they didn't need any. she grabbed his hand and pulled him inside their chambers with a smirk plastered on her face.
Dayron had her chest mashed against his as he put his arms around her back. Her hand rested in the centre of his chest, tracing through his red chest hair. Her fingers came to a halt as they brushed over a pink scar, and her brows furrowed in bewilderment and alarm.
"It's a long story." He informed her, and she glanced up at him, "I've got time." She answered, her fingers tracing the shape of the scar. She despised the fact that she had looked at him so many times and had never seen the scar.
"The Umbers will be home soon,"
He caressed her shoulder. His hands ran through her hair. "I found my father's sword unintended and I began playing with it," he began, "Ice; the greatsword that was made in Old Valyria."
Her gaze was drawn to his features, and she smiled with each word from his lips. "It was so heavy that it knocked me over, I fell onto it, I screamed and screamed when I saw the edge of the blade slice into my chest... The expression on my father's face was unforgettable. He wouldn't let me handle another sword for four years."
"Understandable," Margaery replied, shaking her head, "you were irresponsible back then, weren't you?" They laughed as she buried her face in his arm.
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WORD: 1424
Our main characters are clearly still in their newlywed bliss stage.
I have soooo many ideas for characters to introduce into the story... Tell me what you'll like to see. I am always open to ideas, so please pm want you want to see.
