The Red Keep glittered that night as if it had been reborn in gold and candlelight. Music drifted through the great hall, pipes and fiddles and the soft, sighing notes of a Braavosi harp, while laughter rose and fell like the tide beyond the walls. Silk brushed silk, jewels flashed, and the air was thick with perfume, wine, and triumph. The tourney was done, the bruises fresh and the glory fresher still, and King Robert's court had surrendered itself wholly to pleasure.
Margaery Tyrell felt entirely at ease within it.
She had discovered, to her quiet delight, that King's Landing suited her. The city was loud and unruly and often cruel, yet it lived and breathed in a way few places did. It rewarded beauty and wit, quick smiles and quicker words. Highgarden was lovelier, yes, but the capital was alive. And here, she did not merely belong. She shone.
In the weeks since their arrival, she had divided her days carefully. Half were given to her family, walking the garden paths with her grandmother, listening as her father spoke grandly of influence and honors yet to come, sharing laughter and secrets with Loras in the evenings. The other half she spent wandering the city in guarded freedom, accompanied by Arya Stark and Wylla Manderly, an unlikely pair and yet delightful company both.
Sometimes Loras and Renly joined them, Renly charming and easy, Loras radiant and adored wherever he went. The smallfolk cheered them openly in the streets. The nobles smiled more carefully, but smiled all the same.
Tonight, Margaery wore a green silken gown, the deep living green of summer leaves after rain, with golden roses stitched so finely across the silk that they seemed to bloom when she moved. The gown flowed around her like water, light as a whisper, and when she walked the candleflames followed her as though drawn by it.
It had arrived that morning, borne by a Manderly servant with a bow too careful to be casual and a message too brief to explain anything at all. A gift from Arthur Manderly.
She had not known what to make of it then, and knew no better now.
Arthur was young, scarcely older than herself, yet already spoken of in the same breath as men twice his age. Brave, without question. Extremely handsome, so much so that the court delighted in comparing him to Ser Jaime Lannister, as if beauty were a tourney prize to be claimed. But it was not his looks that lingered in her thoughts. It was that other thing, half-glimpsed and unsettling.
She had seen it the day of the melee. After Gregor Clegane had fallen. When the Mountain was brought low in single combat, the noise of the crowd had been deafening. Yet Arthur Manderly had stood before the high box as though alone, helm beneath his arm, blood on his cheek, blue-green eyes lifted and utterly still. No triumph. No boast. Just a quiet, watchful darkness, like deep water beneath ice.
It had intrigued her more than she cared to admit.
Margaery stood to the side with her family. Lord Mace broad and resplendent, Lady Olenna sharp-eyed and sour-mouthed, and Loras shining as ever, his presence alone enough to draw glances from half the hall.
Before them, a troupe from Lys danced upon a polished floor, their bodies oiled and gleaming, their silks sheer and bright as painted glass. Bells chimed at their wrists and ankles as they spun and leapt, moving like water given flesh.
Exotic flavors of the east, the courtiers whispered, as if such things might be tasted.
"Gods save me, if I have to watch another foreigner monkey lathered in oil dance around naked, I'd go to your grandfather sooner than I had hoped to," Lady Olenna muttered, her mouth twisting as one of the dancers spun low, bells chiming obscenely at his hips.
Loras laughed and leaned toward Margaery, lowering his voice. "As if she'll be in the same place as him."
Margaery pressed her lips together at once, schooling her face, though her eyes betrayed her. A soft breath escaped her nose despite herself.
"I heard you, boy," Olenna snapped without turning her head. "I'm old, not deaf."
Loras only grinned wider. "I was jesting, Grandmother. Grandfather must be eagerly awaiting you, but I do hope you disappoint him by staying with us a while longer."
"That will take no effort at all," Olenna said tartly.
"Well said, Loras," Lord Mace put in, pleased. "Do not worry, mother, you're still quite lively for your age."
"Better than you, at least," Olenna shot back at once. "Now tell me, did you speak with Stark yet?"
Mace Tyrell's face grew red. "Yes, Mother. We've had a wonderful talk," he said, "Lord Stark has invited me to sit as one of the judges in the trial."
"Bravo," Olenna said, unimpressed. "You have secured yourself the seat of a glorified justiciar. A fine honor for a man who enjoys sitting." Her eyes cut to him, sharp as needles. "But that is not our concern. What of the betrothal?"
Margaery felt the word settle over her like a familiar cloak. Heavy, expected, carefully tailored.
She knew this conversation well. It had followed her since she was old enough to smile properly at visiting lords. This time, however, it mattered more than ever. The Reach had come to King's Landing not for dancing or tourneys, but for wolves and trouts, for alliances that could shape the realm.
Her grandmother had already chosen. Robb Stark.
Margaery had agreed, quietly and without protest. Renly Baratheon would have been easy, too easy. He was bound to their house through Loras, his affection plain for any with eyes. A marriage there would bring smiles and pageantry, but little else. Power would not deepen; it would merely circle back on itself.
Robb Stark was different.
He was heir to the North, nephew to the future Lord of the Trident, cousin to the Lord of the Vale. More than that, he was uncle to the future king, should Joffrey and Sansa's match hold. A young man raised in honor, shaped by duty, with a kingdom behind him and more to come. One day, perhaps, even the Hand's chain.
A rose bound to a wolf would bloom across half the realm.
"Lord Stark asked for time," Mace said at last, shifting his weight. "He wishes to consider the matter. He said we would speak again after the trial."
"Good," Olenna replied crisply. "See that he does not take too long. Wolves like to circle before they bite." She sniffed. "And if we cannot have the wolf, we'll make do with the trout."
Mace nodded at once. "Edmure Tully would be—"
"A second choice," Olenna cut in. "And should that fail, we always have our stag."
Loras leaned close once more, his breath warm at her ear. "It seems you'll soon be wearing wolves stitched into your gowns, sister. I wonder if the son will be as cold as the father."
Margaery kept her face serene, though her thoughts were anything but. Her eyes drifted to the high bench, to where Lord Eddard Stark sat beside the king. He looked ill at ease amid the splendor, broad and solemn, his face carved of stone, as though he had wandered into the wrong tale.
Robb Stark… Margaery tried to picture him. She imagined he must be like his father, grave-eyed, solemn, carrying the weight of the North. She wondered if he smiled easily, if he laughed at jests as Loras did, and if he was kind.
She turned back to Loras with a soft smile. "All men wear different faces for different places, brother. The warmest are always kept for their wives." Her eyes flicked once more toward the high bench. "Stark men will not be so different, I think."
Loras laughed. "You sound very certain."
"Certainty is a useful thing," she said lightly. Then she extended her hand. "Come. Let us dance."
Loras smiled and took her hand, leading her out upon the floor as the music swelled anew. He danced as he fought, light, precise, all grace and confidence, spinning her beneath his arm as though the hall itself bent to their movement. Margaery let herself be carried by it, her skirts whispering across the stone, her laughter soft and measured.
As they turned, her gaze wandered.
She glimpsed Arya Stark seated beside her father upon the lower benches, legs swinging faintly beneath her chair, her eyes darting everywhere at once as though the hall were a battlefield waiting to be mapped. Arya wore her discomfort openly, yet there was a spark in her that Margaery found irresistible, untamed, unashamed, alive.
Not far from her sat Wylla Manderly, perched near her uncle Wendel, who was attacking a trencher of roast goose with admirable devotion. Wylla leaned close to him, saying something sharp enough to make the big man laugh mid-bite, grease shining on his fingers. She looked entirely at ease, dressed richly yet wearing it like armor rather than ornament.
Margaery felt a quiet warmth settle in her chest.
She was fond of her cousins, it was true, Alla's sweetness, Elinor's chatter, Megga's eager loyalty, but Arya and Wylla were something else entirely. They felt like mirrors cast from different worlds. Arya was the freedom Margaery sometimes dreamed of, unbound and reckless. Wylla was skill and confidence, honed and unapologetic, a girl who knew exactly who she was and cared little whether the world approved.
They had laughed together in the gardens only days past, sharing lemoncakes while Wylla took her victory at the archery butts as calmly as another girl might accept a compliment. The mystery archer, they had called her then, whispers racing through the stands faster than arrows. The smallfolk had cheered until their throats were raw.
The nobles had not.
Margaery knew how the court thought. Skill was admirable in men. In women, it was unsettling. No lord wanted a Jonquil for a daughter-in-law, however pretty the flower.
That was when she saw him. Arthur Manderly.
Her steps faltered only a heartbeat as the music shifted, and Loras guided her smoothly through it. "You're distracted," he murmured, amusement in his voice.
"Only a little," she replied, smiling.
Ser Arthur Manderly stood near the edge of the hall, surrounded by lords eager to bask in reflected glory. He was laughing now, a bright, open sound, his expression easy and unguarded. The candlelight caught in his pale gold hair, in the line of his jaw, in eyes that shifted from sea-green to shimmering-blue as he moved.
He was handsome, undeniably so, the handsomest man she had ever seen, Margaery thought, surprised at the certainty of it. Yet it was not the symmetry of his face nor the breadth of his shoulders that held her gaze.
It was his smile.
Not the careful curve of a courtier's mouth, nor the smug grin of a victor, but something warmer, more genuine, yet still fleeting. For a moment, the darkness she had seen in him fell away, and he looked simply… a gentler soul than the one who had stood bloodied before the high box. He looked only a man.
She felt Loras stiffen beside her.
Following the line of his sight, she saw the tightness in his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. Pride wounded cut deeper than steel, and her brother's pride had been struck twice now.
"So," he said, too casually, "the hero of the hour."
"Is he?" Margaery asked, though her eyes had not yet left Arthur.
"He rode well enough," Loras replied. "I'll grant him that."
"Do not be wroth, brother," Margaery said softly, leaning closer so only he might hear. "It was a very close defeat."
Loras's lips thinned. "Twice," he muttered. "Twice I am defeated now, and both times by the same man." His voice dropped further. "I am a disappointment."
The words startled her more than any boast might have.
She turned to him fully, her hand finding his arm, fingers tightening just enough to make him look at her. "You are not," she said firmly. "Do not speak so."
"I dislike being compared," Loras said lightly, though his smile did not quite reach his eyes. He laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "The Knight of Flowers, unhorsed again. The singers will tire of me soon enough."
"Let them sing of something else for a time," Margaery replied. "Flowers bloom again, Loras. And you have given the realm more victories than most men see in a lifetime." Her voice gentled. "Losing to one man does not unmake you."
That earned her a small smile at last. "You were always too clever, sister," he said.
"One of us must be," Margaery replied, smiling back.
The music fell away in a gentle hush, the last notes lingering like perfume in the air. Couples slowed and separated, laughter and murmured words filling the space where melody had been. It was the moment when partners were meant to change.
Margaery had just turned back toward Loras when a voice sounded at her side, warm and composed.
"Ser Loras, Lady Margaery," said Arthur, inclining his head, "I pray you are enjoying this fine evening."
She turned, and for a heartbeat the hall seemed to narrow to the space between them. Up close, he was taller than she had remembered, broad-shouldered, his presence quiet yet assured. The candlelight caught in his eyes, lending them a softer hue than the shimmering blue-green she recalled from the lists.
"Yes, we are," Margaery said, smiling easily. "The king has outdone himself. And you have given the realm much to celebrate, ser champion."
A hint of color touched Arthur's cheeks. "You honor me, my lady." His smile came readily then, bright, unguarded. He turned to Loras. "May I steal your sister away for a while, ser?"
Loras's gaze flicked from Arthur to Margaery. For a breath, she wondered if he might refuse. Instead, she met his eyes and gave the smallest nod. Loras's pride warred with his love, and his love won as it always did in the end.
"Go on," Loras said, stepping back. "Just be sure you return her in one piece."
Arthur laughed softly. "I shall guard her well."
He offered Margaery his hand. She placed hers within it, noting the warmth of his fingers, the strength there, and allowed him to lead her onto the floor. The musicians struck up a new tune, slower this time, rich and lilting, meant for closeness rather than display.
Arthur guided her easily into the pattern of the dance, one hand light at her waist, the other steady at her fingers. Margaery found the rhythm at once. She had danced with many men, lords eager to impress, knights too stiff in their armor of pride, but with him it felt effortless, as if the music itself bent to accommodate them both. Though he stood a full head taller, he moved with care, never crowding her, never forcing her steps.
"You dance beautifully, my lady," he said quietly, as they moved.
"As do you, ser," she replied. "You move as though you were born to it."
"I learned at my cousin Wynafryd's insistence," he said, amused. "She claimed no man should be allowed near a feast if he could not dance well."
Margaery laughed softly. "A wise woman."
"The wisest I know," Arthur said, without hesitation.
They turned, skirts brushing, the world beyond them blurring into color and sound. Margaery was keenly aware of the eyes upon them now, curious, measuring, whispering. Let them whisper. She had learned long ago how to dance beneath scrutiny.
"Your beauty blooms brighter than the sun, my lady," Arthur said smiling. "It has graced this city beyond words."
The praise, so plainly spoken, caught her unguarded. "Thank you, ser," she replied, a faint blush warming her cheeks. "I heard that you are a poet, though I was certain that I am not beautiful enough to be your muse."
Arthur smiled then, not the dazzling grin he wore for the crowds, but something quieter, filled with honest intent. "My lady, if the Maiden herself came down to our world and danced at this feast, she would still be the second loveliest flower in the realm."
For a heartbeat, Margaery forgot the steps. Heat rushed to her face, and she knew she could not hide her smile even if she wished to. No one had ever praised her so boldly, not with such easy conviction.
"Blasphemy, from noble Ser Arthur's mouth," she said lightly, recovering herself. "The High Septon would die of shock if he heard you."
Arthur laughed, a low, warm sound. "He might die and curse me besides," he said, "but I would not say otherwise."
"Why, ser?" she teased, arching a brow as they spun apart and together again. "Surely you do not believe such a thing. You are only flattering me."
"Because, my lady," he replied, his voice dropping just enough to feel meant for her alone, "I do not lie. 'Tis a graver sin than blasphemy."
Margaery laughed, light and unguarded, as Arthur spun her beneath his arm. The skirts of her gown flared like green fire, golden roses flashing in the candlelight. For a fleeting moment, the court, the whispers, the careful reckonings all fell away. There was only the music, the warmth of his hand, and the strange, heady sense that the world had narrowed to the space they shared.
She met his gaze again as the dance slowed. "Thank you for the dress, ser," she said. "It is truly beautiful."
Arthur's smile softened. "It was nothing, my lady." He hesitated, then added more quietly, "I wished to thank you for taking care of Wylla. She… she is not the easiest soul. But she is my cousin, and I will not forget the kindness you have shown her."
Margaery shook her head gently. "I have done nothing worth thanks. Wylla is my friend, and a very interesting person besides."
His expression tightened, the mirth fading from his eyes. "Wylla is a fool," Arthur said under his breath, not unkindly, but with a hard-earned certainty. "And you have spared her complete ruin. Had you not stood with her, she would have been an outcast among the nobility." His jaw set. "No one wishes a Jonquil for their daughter-in-law."
The words hung between them, stark and unadorned.
Margaery did not flinch. She had thought the same thing herself, though she would never have voiced it so plainly. It was the cruel truth of the world they lived in.
"Perhaps that is their failing," she said at last, her voice calm. "Not Wylla's."
Arthur studied her, something like relief crossing his face. "Perhaps," he allowed. "But failing or not, it is the truth we are given."
Margaery's gaze held him, steady and mischievous at once. She tilted her head slightly, letting the faintest curl of a smile touch her lips.
"What's done is done," she said softly, "and if you truly wish to thank me, then you must do something for me."
Arthur's brow lifted, the easy confidence in his smile giving way to curiosity. "Of course, my lady," he said. "Anything you wish."
She let the music die around them, the last notes of the harp drifting to silence. "You must answer all my questions truthfully," she said, her voice low and firm. "No lying. No hiding the truth."
Arthur's surprise deepened, and he straightened slightly, his hand still lightly holding hers. "All your questions?" he asked, a faint edge of wariness in his tone. "For how long?"
She laughed softly, a sound that danced like sunlight on water. "Only for tonight," she said. "It is only fair."
The corners of his mouth twitched, half in amusement, half in genuine intrigue. "Tonight?" he echoed. "And if I refuse?"
Margaery tilted her chin, letting the glimmer in her eyes do half the work. "Then you are ungrateful for my kindness, ser. And I do not forgive ungrateful men lightly."
Arthur inclined his head, eyes alight with a mixture of challenge and admiration. "Very well. I shall do as you wish, my lady, ask away."
Margaery gave a small, mischievous smile, brushing a hand lightly over his arm. "Not here," she said, her voice low, careful. "I would not wish your secrets revealed to prying ears."