A Vow Without Honor

The Severing

Margaery

She had never been prone to nightmares. It was Loras who ran to their mother in the dead of night, and Garlan who had been haunted by his first execution, hiding in the library so they would not know he refused to sleep until pushed to the point of utter exhaustion. But she had learned early in life that a young woman had far more to fear in the waking world than anything her imagination could conjure in sleep. Dreams were blissful ignorance, the only ones she could afford.

Yet as of late, Margaery had been plagued. She slept poorly, tossing and turning until the wee hours of the morning, only to be met by the singing of steel and screams when her eyes finally closed. The images were fleeting, frantic, and gripped her with a terror she had not known in her lifetime. When she awoke, her skin burned with a thousand cuts and the heat of an unquenchable fire. In her mind's eye, Cersei watched her from the Iron Throne, smug even as the ancient swords cut her to ribbons.

That morning, she woke her chambermaid and seared the images away with the blazing heat of her hearth, but in the silence of the keep, the roars of its flames were like lions.

She watched the fire from the sofa, her knees neatly tucked under her chin, feeling less like a queen and more a doll for the boy they called king. Her family had fought a war for two different kings, and she had played her part for three marriages, yet she felt no closer to truly achieving her dream than when she was a silly maiden running through the hedgerows in Highgarden.

Margaery wondered what might have happened had Joffrey lived, and further still, if Renly had. What would the Seven Kingdoms look like if the might of the Reach and the Stormlands had been given the chance to face their destiny? But that was the problem: their destiny was to flounder and fail, and they had done just that. And then the lions came calling...

A log cracked, spitting embers into the darkness. It drew Margaery out of her foolish musing, and she realized that the keep was not as quiet as she once believed. Footsteps were shuffling out in the halls, clearly in an attempt to muffle the sound, but armor was not made for keeping secrets. Something was happening.

Wrapping a robe about her, Margaery made for the entryway. She pressed against the door, straining to hear anything beyond her room. Another set of footsteps hurried past, but no words were spoken. She watched the light of a torch pass below the gap and stepped back as if it would burn. It made her feel foolish. She was the queen, and she needed to act the part.

Ser Balon Swann stood vigilant before her chambers, dark eyes scanning the area. She noticed his hand rested on the pommel of his sword.

"What is happening?" she asked, squinting in the darkness. A lone servant sprinted on the other side of the chamber, their footfalls silent as they disappeared from sight. It alarmed her more than the guards, and she did not know why.

"I do not know, Your Grace. No one has told me, but you should remain in your chambers. I do not believe it is safe."

Loras would never leave me alone if that were true.

"No," Margaery replied firmly, stepping fully into the hall. "We go to the king."

"Your Grace, I do not think-"

She leveled a stare on the knight, watching as his resistance crumbled before her. "We go to the king."

Tommen's chambers were not far from hers, yet the brief walk felt like a grueling march. As her eyes adjusted to the darkened interior, Margaery began to spy details she had not seen before. There were guards lining the halls, both Lannister and Tyrell, silently watching every move. Servants still dressed in their nightclothes were clustered in corners, whispering and pointing. A trail of blood marred the marbled floors and drove Ser Balon to unsheathe his sword.