Arthur followed her obediently as she led the way through a narrow corridor to a balcony high above the Red Keep. The city spread below them, a sea of torches and distant laughter, the narrow sea shimmering like molten silver under the half-moon. A breeze stirred her hair, carrying the faint scent of sea and stone, and she noticed how the moonlight caught Arthur's pale hair, lending it a silvery sheen, and how his eyes shimmered in the shadows.
She wondered, not for the first time, which parent he favored more. Tales of his mother's beauty had reached even the quiet halls of Highgarden, and standing beside him now, Margaery felt inclined to believe every whisper. There had been few men so striking, and perhaps none so altogether arresting.
They settled on a carved stone bench, close enough that their knees almost brushed, and she felt the faint warmth of him beside her. She let her hand rest lightly in her lap and regarded him carefully.
"Now tell me, ser," she began, tilting her head with the air of inquiry she often used with scholars and knights alike. "Is it true that you have visited all the wonders made by men?"
Arthur laughed, a low sound that mingled with the wind. "The palace with a thousand rooms in Sarnath now lies in ruin, so I could not see that one, my lady," he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Though I have walked its stones in memory, at least."
Margaery's eyes widened, "Extraordinary! When did you visit them all? You are only six and ten years old."
"I have been sailing since I could walk, my lady," Arthur replied, his tone soft, as though there was nothing remarkable about him. "The sea has always been my home. I visited the Wall first when I was only five. By the time I was four-and-ten, I had sailed as far as Yi Ti."
Margaery drew in a small breath, her mind filling with images of windswept decks, white-capped waves, and endless horizons. "How wonderful it must have been!" she said, a note of wistfulness threading her voice. "To see lands so far away, to smell the scents of winds and seas. It is something most of us can only dream of."
Margaery let her eyes wander over the dark waters of the Blackwater below, the half-moon casting its silver path across the river. She had traveled Highgarden, Oldtown, and the winding streets of Oldtown's harbor, but the world beyond Westeros had always been a story told in books and whispered legends. To imagine Arthur standing beneath alien towers, seeing a sun rise over strange seas, made her chest tighten with something that was part admiration, part longing.
Arthur's voice broke the reverie, warm and easy. "You may see them yourself, my lady," he said. "Your future husband, whoever that lucky man is, may take you sailing one day."
Margaery turned toward him, the night breeze ruffling the fine silk of her gown, a sly smile curving her lips. "Aye," she said lightly, "and we might take you along as our guide. I would not trust any other to show me the seas."
Arthur's smile broadened, the silver glow of moonlight catching in his hair, lending him a softness that seemed almost otherworldly. "I would be honored, my lady," he said, and the sincerity in his tone made her heart stir in a way she scarcely expected.
Then, without warning, she tilted her head, eyes glinting with playful intent. "Apples or oranges?"
Arthur blinked at her, confusion furrowing his brow. "I… don't… uh… Is that a question?" he stammered, caught entirely off guard.
"It is now," Margaery said, teasing him, a note of challenge in her voice. "Come, fast. Pick one."
He swallowed, then answered hastily, "Oranges."
Her laughter, soft and musical, floated over the balcony like wind through the trees. "Sorry ser," she said, mock sorrow in her tone, "that was the wrong answer."
Arthur threw back his head and laughed, unrestrained, a sound so bright it seemed to chase away the cool night air. "I don't even know what the question was!"
Margaery's gaze lingered on him, sharp and calculating for just a moment before softening. "Next question," she said lightly, letting her voice carry the ease of a casual jest, "is it true that you are to be betrothed to Desmara? And do not lie, you promised me truth, ser."
Arthur's eyes flickered, betraying a momentary startle. Margaery could see it there, in the tightening of his jaw and the faint flush rising beneath his collar. She leaned back slightly, giving him space, letting the weight of her inquiry settle. She had heard whispers from Wylla about the Redwyne twins lingering at Arthur's manse, about their careful plotting to secure Desmara as his bride. Loras had spoken of the same, though in jest, yet she needed confirmation, the truth stripped of rumor.
Arthur's smile faltered, replaced by a line of seriousness, and he drew a small, steadying breath. "I did give you my word, my lady," he said, his voice calm though edged with discomfort. "No… I am not betrothed. There is… talk, yes, but nothing certain. No promise has been made."
Margaery's expression softened, though the faint spark of her curiosity remained. She felt a twinge of guilt, the smallest prick in her conscience, for pressing him like this. But it was a tool she knew well, one honed by years of careful observation and measured inquiry. Arthur could have dismissed her, laughed at her, or worse, taken offense. Yet he had answered with patience and respect, and that made her regard him with a new shade of curiosity.
"Forgive me, ser," she said softly, her eyes steady on his. "I was merely curious. Desmara is my cousin, and I only wished to know."
Arthur's lips curved into a faint, amused smile, "I understand, my lady. There is nothing to forgive. Curiosity is no sin to me, especially when asked with such… grace."
Margaery leaned back slightly on the balcony, her eyes fixed on Arthur with that quiet intensity she often reserved for questions that mattered more than appearances. "Then you may forgive me for another curiosity," she said softly, letting the words linger, "one last question, which you may choose to answer, or not."
Arthur tilted his head, "Sure, my lady," he said, his voice steady. "I still owe you answers."
Her lips curved into a faint, teasing smile, "What kind of woman do you want as your wife?" she asked, letting the words flow with an easy grace, though the question carried the weight of genuine interest. "I know it is a silly, girlish question, but indulge me if you can, ser. I would know what sort of wife the fairest knight of the Seven Kingdoms desires."
Arthur laughed, the sound low and warm, shaking his head with a hint of exasperation. "Did Wylla and Arya put you up to this?"
Margaery laughed in turn, "It is not entirely impossible," she said, "but no. I wish to know it for my own sake, ser." Her gaze lingered on him, curious, probing, yet kind. "Tell me, truly. I have promised you no tricks in return."
Arthur's expression grew measured, his usual brightness dimming ever so slightly. Margaery noticed, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered at her own boldness, why she had asked, why her curiosity now took her so far beyond the usual games of courtly banter. She had long observed knights and lords from the distance, admired them, judged them, but never allowed herself to question them this closely. And yet here she was, wanting to know if any woman had caught the eye of Ser Arthur Manderly, the knight who had bested champions and hearts alike.
"I haven't given it much thought, to be honest, my lady," he said slowly, his voice low and measured, carrying the weight of sincerity. "For it is not in our hands, is it? I am no Prince of Fireflies, my lady."
Margaery tilted her head, and smiled faintly. "My lord," she said gently, "people have fallen in love in marriages not of their choosing, too. It is all in the hands of the gods. Fate has a way of weaving itself where we least expect."
Arthur's gaze lingered on the silver sea below, thoughtful, his jaw set. She could see the careful weighing of words behind those blue-green eyes.
"Now," Margaery said, letting her voice take the hint of mischief she often hid beneath, "do not try to avoid the question. Answer honestly, ser."
Arthur's voice softened, the weight of unspoken years threading through each word. He leaned slightly against the balcony, eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the dark waters of the Blackwater met the faint silver of the moonlit sea.
"In the garden of my unfulfilled dreams, one flower stands tall. The flower gives me a distant scent of what I have lost. I want that back," he said slowly, "Like all lost men I want to be found in the end. I want to sit by a calm shore where the north winds do gently blow. I want to ride near a hill where the white dandelions grow. I want… someone who can give me a home."
Margaery felt the words pierce the delicate armor she had worn for so long. Her chest tightened, and for a heartbeat, the world of courtly games, of silks and whispers, fell away. She saw not the victorious knight, the handsome hero of the tourney, but a man shaped by longing, by absence, by the quiet ache of what had been denied him.
She felt her eyes glisten, a sudden warmth she could not wholly disguise. Hastily, she brushed at the corners with the backs of her fingers, hoping he would not notice, though she knew well enough that such things often betrayed themselves. When she lifted her eyes, he was looking at her again, that easy, disarming smile playing at his lips, the kind that made the world feel lighter and yet somehow heavier all at once.
Her throat felt tight, words she longed to say caught somewhere between heart and tongue. She opened her mouth, closed it, tried again, anything, something, but the weight of the night, the moon, the honesty in his voice, rendered her speechless.
Arthur inclined his head slightly, courteous as always. "We should head back to the hall, my lady. The feast will start soon." His tone carried no impatience, only gentle propriety, but even that seemed to echo with the softness of the words he had just spoken.
Margaery nodded, wordless, letting him guide her back along the balcony corridor. The sound of music and laughter swelled as they approached the hall, yet she felt distant from it, as though she were walking in a private world of her own making.
When they reached the ballroom, Arthur bowed with perfect courtesy. "My thanks for the dance, Lady Margaery. It has been… most delightful," he said, and then, with a final glance that lingered just long enough to unsettle her, he turned and slipped back toward his own company.
Renly was the first to appear, a grin tugging at his lips. "Well?" he asked, "Was he as infuriatingly perfect as I told you?"
Loras laughed softly. "Or perhaps too clever for your liking, sister?"
Margaery shook her head faintly, forcing a small smile, but her thoughts refused their usual pliancy. She could not summon teasing or jest; she could not meet their curious eyes with any of the practiced elegance of courtly banter. All she saw, all she could feel, was the man with the sea-bright eyes, and that smile, so impossibly, heartbreakingly beautiful, it seemed to linger in the air long after he had gone.
As the feast thinned and the hour grew late, a hush stole through the Red Keep like a living thing. Cups were set aside, laughter faded to murmurs, and somewhere beyond the press of bodies a sound rose, soft at first, no more than a breath upon strings.
Margaery felt it before she heard it properly. A pull, gentle and insistent, as though the night itself had spoken her name.
She had been restless through the latter half of the feast, her gaze straying again and again to doorways and shadows, seeking a familiar pale head and finding only strangers. Arthur Manderly had vanished, and with him went the strange warmth his presence had kindled. She told herself it was foolish to notice. She told herself many things.
Renly noticed at once. "There," he said softly, nodding toward the balcony. "I thought I heard music."
Loras had already turned, drawn as surely as she was. Together they followed the sound, past marble pillars and flickering torchlight, until the hall opened onto a wide balcony washed in moonlight.
There he stood.
Arthur Manderly leaned against the stone balustrade, a lute cradled easily in his hands. The sea wind tugged at his pale hair, setting it aglow like spun silver beneath the moon. He did not look like the victor of a tourney then, nor the man who had stood unflinching before Gregor Clegane. He looked… unguarded.
When he sang, the world seemed to narrow around his voice.
"Maybe it's the way you say my name
Maybe it's the way you play your game
But it's so good, I've never known anybody like you
But it's so good, I've never dreamed of nobody like you"
His voice was deep and low, rich as dark honey, yet threaded through with something fragile. It carried easily across the stone, across the silence, settling into Margaery's chest as though it had always belonged there.
She felt her throat tighten.
The words were simple, almost plain, yet they struck with a force no courtly verse ever had. He was not performing. He was remembering. Each line sounded like a confession he had never meant to give voice to, now laid bare beneath the stars.
The wind lifted, stirring his cloak, and for a heartbeat he looked carved from moonlight and longing both.
Around them, nobles and knights stood as still as statues. No one spoke. No one dared.
Margaery felt her eyes sting, and then the tears came, unbidden and unwelcome. She did not move to stop them. It would have been useless. The song had found her, slipped past all her careful walls, and settled in her heart.
"I've heard of a love that comes once in a lifetime
And I'm pretty sure that you are that love of mine
'Cause I'm in a field of dandelions
Wishin' on every one that you'd be mine, mine
And I see forever in your eyes
I feel okay when I see you smile, smile"
Her breath trembled as the words washed over her.
Once in a lifetime. The phrase echoed cruelly, sweetly. Margaery Tyrell, who had been raised on alliances and advantage, who knew the worth of every smile and courtesy, felt something dangerously close to longing bloom in her chest. Arthur's voice carried love and sorrow both, braided together like flowers laid upon a grave.
Beside her, Renly's usual mirth had softened into something gentler, his lips parted, eyes fixed upon the singer. A tear tracked down his cheek, unremarked upon. Loras, beside him, had bowed his head, hands clenched at his sides, his rivalry forgotten, there was no room for envy here, only awe.
All about them, the hall had fallen into reverent silence. Lords forgot their rivalries, ladies forgot their whispers. Even the servants lingered, trays forgotten in their hands. Each soul there seemed to hold their breath, afraid that the smallest sound might shatter the spell. They drank in every note as though it were the last sweetness left in the world.
The melody softened then, turning inward upon itself, as though the song were folding back toward Arthur's heart. His fingers brushed the strings more gently now, each note lingering in the cool night air like a whispered secret.
"Dandelion into the wind you go
Won't you let my darling know?
Dandelion into the wind you go
Won't you let my darling know that…"
Margaery felt her breath leave her in a slow, shuddering sigh. The word darling did not sound like something newly discovered upon his tongue. It sounded old. Worn smooth by memory. Spoken to the sea and the stars when no one else was listening. For all the warmth in his voice, there had been a wound beneath it, old and deep, and she could not name it.
"I'm in a field of dandelions
Wishin' on every one that you'd be mine, mine
Oh, and I see forever in your eyes
I feel okay when I see you smile, smile"
Her heart ached with it.
Margaery stood very still, afraid that if she moved, the moment would break apart like spun glass. Her mind turned the question over and over, searching for its answer. Who is he singing for? A mother lost too soon, whose smile lived only in memory? A love taken by the sea, claimed by war or sickness or distance? Or some gentler ghost, a life he might have lived, a home he had never truly known?
She thought of his words on the balcony. The song was that wish given voice. There was something of farewell in the song, something that sounded like a child calling after a departing ship. A boy wishing upon flowers that the wind might carry his love where he could not.
Even the torches seemed to burn more softly as Arthur's fingers slowed, drawing the last sweetness from the strings as though he feared letting the song go. His voice lowered further, no longer meant for the hall at all, but for the gods, the wind, and whatever hope still listened.
"Wishin' on dandelions all of the time
Prayin' to gods that one day you'll be mine"
Margaery felt the words strike her like a confession overheard in a sept at dawn.
"Wishin' on dandelions all of the time, all of the time"
Her chest ached.
She thought of Highgarden in spring, of fields bright with flowers children crushed beneath their feet without thought. Dandelions were weeds to most, fragile things, scattered by the lightest breath. Yet he sang of them as though each carried a hope worth trusting the wind with.
"I'm in a field of dandelions
Wishin' on every one that you'd be mine, mine"
The final mine lingered, trembling, before fading into silence.
No one moved.
Margaery realized she had been holding her breath and let it out slowly, afraid even now to disturb what remained. Her eyes were wet again, though she scarcely remembered when the tears had begun. This was not the polite sadness of courtly songs, nor the bold yearning of a bard seeking coin and favor. This was bare and true.
Renly lifted a hand to his face and laughed softly under his breath, a sound too close to a sob to fool anyone. "Gods," he murmured, "I can't stop it."
Arthur let his hands fall still upon the lute. For a heartbeat, he remained as he was, head bowed, hair falling across his eyes, as though the song had taken something from him and he needed a moment to gather what remained.