"𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓'𝑠 𝐵𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑," their father always called it. Could make a man or woman wild in a sense, unpredictable, and powerful. And when a violet-eyed twin born to the Lord Eddard Stark, all knew that the boy would have it. And he did.
Beside his...
The sun did rise in the morning, the same as it always did. Once again, Margaery was swept through the galleries and whatnot, shown the fabrics she would like for her dresses and the jewelery she would wear, the wine she would sip like a pretty fool should and the cake that she would dine. But she was no fool. She knew something was going to happen that day, either terrible or good, but she did not know which.
The Sand Snake had been following her around, stalking her as if she is a lion and Margaery herself is the prey. The Tyrell girl already had enough lions to deal with. A venomous one was something she did not wish to put up with as well.
The Dornish are a strong people, the Martells in Particular. "Unbound, Unbent, Unbroken," being their House words. "Growing Strong," was House Tyrell's, but the Martell words had a nicer ring to it. They earned their House words, whereas her own, Margaery knew, played the game behind their liege lord's back during the Conquest which saw the toppling of six kings, leaving only one in their wake.
Marrying again, she thought to herself as she gazed from her balcony once more in dismay. First to Renly Baratheon, the would-be King of Westeros had he not been a fool and stopped to camp and play games every other day. He didn't even make it to King's Landing. Now she was marrying the final King of Westeros, the only real one that counted, and that was Joffrey.
Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, was cruel, a monster in almost every sense of the word. "Work with these people," her grandmother had told her. "Work with them, play their games, and someday soon, they will work for us, play our games." The Queen of Thorns earned her name for a reason. But Margaery really did not wish to play this game in this fashion. It was a dance more so than a game, the same as how the Dance was more a dance than a war, people still died either way, but there was a majesty to it.
"Your Grace?"
A knock came to the door to her bed chambers and the voice called neutrally from the other side, and Margaery side softly as she turned to the door.
"Who might it be?"
She asked as she waited for an answer, but no answer had come. Strange, Margaery thought. She half expected it to be a handmaiden rushing in to bring her tea, or to announce the requirement of her presence in the Throne room, or the gardens, or the tourney grounds later in the morn, but not any of guesses were true. Margaery walked toward the door, raising a brow in confusion as she opened it, seeing that the voice from the other side, the person it belonged to, whoever it might be, was not there.
