Fandom Game of Thrones: Taken (Closed)

[Blushing]

“Fiodoire’s Pride” is what her father christened the ship. Anyone could’ve known, as it’d been painted proudly across the hull in bold silver letters. Displaying to the world what cargo it carried.

The vessel itself was a marvel of northern craftsmanship. Just as grand as the ships forged in the southern kingdoms. Boasting a sleek, dark lumber frame and vast sea-green sails bearing their kelpie. It made for an awfully convenient wedding gift. The perfect vessel to whisk her away to her dearly beloved in King’s Landing. Where she’d live happily ever after birthing children and being subservient until her dying days.

Of course, the gift wasn’t intended for her. The ship, quite like herself, belonged to the man who’d accepted her father’s proposal. It was a lavish prison; with the guards she’d trusted growing up now serving as her wardens. How Willow hated them.

She wished, more than anything, for them to be swept away by a vengeful tempest. For the ship be broken asunder and left forgotten to the choking brine of the sea. It was a dark thought. Tempting in nature; the same breed that had begun to wear on her already meager resolve. It was all too easy for them to fester into something similar to madness, and Willow could feel herself succumbing. Withering.

She’d neither slept or taken food nor water since the morning prior, and her appearance reflected it. Once vibrant eyes had dulled and her freckled features were sunburnt and sunken. Her black hair may have once been made up of intricately woven raven braids and curls, but now it was just a mess. So caked with sea salt that made it almost painful to the touch.

Not a soul had spoken to her since the sun had risen. Willow lingered by the ship’s edge, idly gazing out onto the gently swaying waters. Her mind was elsewhere. Lost in gut-wrenching daydreams of the fate that awaited her in the southern lands. The world around her may has well have been nonexistent. Until the panic started.

“To the west!” An alarmed voice rang out. Startling Willow out of her mind and back into reality. “An Ironborn vessel!”
Ironborn. The word had come like a curse. Silencing and garnering the attention of everyone aboard. Unease settled amongst them. Some rushed to his side to see it for themselves. Others tried to chuckle in a vain effort to call his bluff. But sure enough, coasting out on the waters was an Ironborn longship.

There was no mistaking it. Even from this distance, one could easily make out the iconic kraken embellished into the sails. It was difficult to determine its pace, but it was certainly moving towards them. Willow narrowed her gaze onto it, her features wrought with disdain. She knew of their kind. Sad little men with lives rooted in indiscriminate piracy and the ruthless pillaging of those who couldn’t defend themselves. Their one and only achievement as a household being their unparalleled prowess in raiding slow, boastful ships like hers.

Willow had thought they’d come to heel after their failed rebellion a decade ago. But apparently, they’d finished licking their wounds and were ready to terrorize the waters once more.

“Fucking vultures.” One of her men spat. “Take the lady and go below deck.” He gestured towards the emaciated Willow, who visibly tensed. “We need to prepare for the worst.”

=======
​

The roar of the crowd surrounding them was nearly deafening. It signaled the defeat of yet another unfortunate man, whose limp body fell unceremoniously to the ground. Margaery couldn’t help but flinch. She knew he wasn’t dead, but the amount of blood seeping through his helm inspired the slightest twinge of revulsion.

The victor loomed over the conquered. Watching sternly as two men approached to hoist the unfortunate soul away. Man after man would part for them, their faces wrought with concern and morbid curiosity as they all tried to catch glimpses of the carnage. Now, the armor-clad woman stood unopposed in the makeshift arena. Completely and utterly undefeated.

Margaery straightened her posture and laid her hands upon her lap. Brienne had proven herself quite entertaining, and her people seemed to agree. She gazed upwards towards herself and Renly, no doubt harboring an expectant expression beneath her battered helm. How eager she was to finish what she’d started. To prove herself to her king.

Already, five men had fallen to her. Five different combatants hand chosen by Renly himself. An impressive feat in itself to be sure, but there was still one obstacle standing between her and the title of champion. The Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell.

Loras, as if on cue, fearlessly stepped forward from the crowd brandishing a battle axe. Margaery’s pride swelled with the rising cheers of the drunken spectators. The Tarth girl was daunting, but so was he. A lithe frame and quick wit made him unpredictable to anyone who wasn’t expecting it. He’d conquered larger opponents with ease, surely she’d be no different.

The two combatants met in the center of the makeshift arena. Wordlessly sizing each other up as they’d done so. Renly and Margaery shared a knowing glance, both seemingly eager to begin.

“Very well.” Their king commanded jovially. “Commence at your leisure.”

At the word, both combatants set at one another. The clash of armor, weapons, and shields soon echoing throughout the encampment once more. Every clank earned a chorus of drunken cheers and gasps, and caused Margaery’s heart to race a bit faster.

It was no less a dance, as beautiful as it was deadly. The taller one was far more oppressive. Whereas Loras was more reactive. Each blow she dealt was evaded with ease, but her defense had proven impregnable. It was thrilling. So much so that, in her excitement, Margaery would stand to cheer him on.
“Loras!” She’d proudly applauded, garnering more than a few amused glances. “For Highgarden!”

It must’ve encouraged him, as his next strike very nearly knocked the woman off her feet. However, she proved resilient. Recovering from the blow surprisingly quickly. The pace quickened. Tensions rose; and soon Margaery was reacting along with the spectators with each collision of their weaponry.
Mid-dance, Brienne quite literally seized an opportunity with both hands. Grappling Loras into her arms and down onto the ground below. The queen gasped, recoiling with worry as she procured a dagger from her hip.

Their was a brief moment of dread as Margaery recalled what’d happened to the man previous. She was ready to descend from her perched throne when she’d heard him yield to her. Rather desperately at that.

Margaery felt her gaze narrow onto the woman. But her spiteful disappointment was ever fleeting. Loras appeared quite upset. Bitter, even. Renly, however, was visibly impressed by the woman.

“Approach.” He’d called from his perch. “Remove your helm.”

And she did just that. Short, sweaty blond locks slowly unfurled from within. There was a collective gasp from the spectators, followed by an uneasy silence. Their king, however, praised her relentlessly. Going as far as to offer her anything within his power as her prize.

“Your grace, I ask the honor of a place among your King’s Guard.” She’d boldly stated without hesitation. Renly arched a brow, seemingly rendered speechless from such a humble request. “Very well! It is done! Rise then, Brienne of the King’s Guard.”

Gasps echoed throughout the crowd. Behind her, Loras grimaced. Mouthing a faint ‘what?’ at his sibling. Margaery thought it curious, but didn’t dare question her king. She stood by him and certainly trusted his judgement; and Loras would come round eventually. He always did.

 

[Lucyfer]

The Black Wind cut across the sea after its prey, that had been spotted by the glinting silver in the paint on hull. The metal flakes that made it so appealing had spelled its end as it drew the attention of Captain Yara Greyjoy. The kelpie emblem was known, if the name hadn’t given it all away. The young captain had made a point to know all the Northern houses that kept her brother, Theon, away from home.

That turned him soft.

Fiodoire was a new house, arising after the ashes of the Targaryen dynasty had lost their heat. They were not known to have much in the way of soldiers, and even if they were, it would not have stopped Yara. With the entirety of the mainland at war with one another, pillaging their ships had become easy work. They would not send anyone to retaliate.

“Pull up close to that ship, Lea,” Yara called to the red-head at the helm, the only other woman aboard her vessel, “This one should go down easy, but we want its contents, so no fire arrows,” she said as she began to walk from the helm, down into the pit of the boot. “Archers, notch your arrows, prepare to fire,” Yara began with the commands, dropping her looking glass into a pocket as she took out one of her throwing axes.

The crew did not appear heavily armed. Sometimes, that could be deceptive, but in this case, Yara did not think so.

She was not expecting much of a fight at all, but there were no signs yet of surrender. Not that Yara often cared if anyone surrendered, although she didn’t really intend to keep the boat, in this case. Destroying it prematurely wouldn’t be good, though.

As the longship drew up closer, Yara lifted her own axe into the air, “Loose!” And the arrows flew to sprinkle the deck of the Fiodoire’s Pride, catching wood, sail, and people alike in the hail of arrows, before they could fire back. Her archers notched again, and another hail was let loose while some of her crew rushed to grab the grappling hooks that would be used to pull their boat alongside the Fiodoire’s Pride, and allow them to board it. The ship sat a little higher on the water than her own, but that was no problem.

That’s what ladders were for, after all.

The collision of their hulls rocked both boats, but up went the ladders anyways once the hooks had been thrown up on the deck and pulled them tight, like lovers, against each other. Yara was the first on one – always leading by example, and prepared to put her axe into the first fool her dark eyes came to rest upon. She knew none would mistake her for a woman in her current garb and she could not count on that surprise fact – the short, brown hair, and leather armor, made her look just like any other man, though perhaps, shorter.

The sounds of several feet would soon permeate through the ship’s deck as the Ironborn began to board it. Screams and shouts would also carry over the wind, and through the vessel, along with the occasional thud or splash of someone falling over, to wood, or to water.

~***~

"Go with her. See that Lady Catelyn retains our interests. She is a woman of the Riverlands, and of the Seven…."

Roose Bolton had doubted Robb Stark’s choice to send Lady Catelyn to treat with the southern kings, Renly Baratheon and Stannis Baratheon. His daughter, Amaranth Bolton, held that same doubt. Catelyn remained an outsider to the North, no matter her marriage to Lord Stark. She was, in fact, the very reason they were in this mess, after she’d so foolishly tried to detain Tyrion Lannister and see him tried, not in the North, but in the Eyrie, where her sister lived.

Amaranth did not speak of these things to Lady Catelyn, of course, and there’d been no argument towards her accompanying Lady Catelyn. It had been eased over with the consideration that the Lady Bolton could be used, as her own son had been used, to forge an alliance if it was necessary. Renly had no children, and Stannis had only a daughter, but it was known that the Tyrells were there, and Loras was not spoken for.

The Tyrells and Renly, by default, could be won over in such a way.

So it was that the Red Princess found herself walking through a camp of drunken men, cheering for violence, alongside Lady Catelyn. Her attire was not like the guards, though it had been not long ago when they’d been riding. She had changed her leathers for a pink dress to appear in the role needed, the bright hue a contrast to Lady Stark’s own dour colors and the bland browns of the guards – but not nearly so vibrant as her favored red.

They found a way through the mess of men to watch as the violence continued, clearly a contest of some sort, and two knights fought. The identity of one was soon obvious by the cheers of the Queen, Amara’s eyes drifting almost lazily up as the Queen seemed to lose herself for a moment to the battle. ‘Margaery Tyrell.’ Known by her status as Queen, for Amara had never seen the woman before.

Her attire was hardly proper, the deep cut of her cleavage revealing more than would ever be called modest. Perhaps it was the norm in the Reach. Amaranth knew she envied her it immediately; the heat threatened to kill her. Though the dress she wore was light, by Northern standards, that was still Northern standards.

Her gaze returned back to the fight, as she and the others watched wordlessly while a rather interesting woman defeated the famous Knight of Flowers. Amara couldn’t help the smile that came to her lips, and she noted the brief scowl Lady Catelyn shot her. She ignored it, as often as Lady Mormont had ignored it.

This was why Catelyn could not be counted amongst them. The shock that had rippled through her, and the others, was palpable, as she asked to be among the King’s Guard and was granted it. Renly began the applause for it, and Amara easily joined in, among others, who gradually, grudgingly, offered their support.

It was during that applause that Catelyn gave a look to one of their men, and then stepped forward. Amara followed after on the heels of Lady Catelyn, and the applause began to die down. “Your Grace,” the man addressed Renly, “I have the honor to bring you Lady Catelyn Stark, and Lady Amaranth Bolton, sent as envoys from Robb, Lord of Winterfell.”

Catelyn was quick to speak up at that. “Lord of Wintefell, and King in the North,” she corrected, and her words of speaking of another ‘king’ sent a ripple of tension through the gathered crowd.

“Lady Catelyn,” Renly did not appear phased by that, though. “Lady Bolton,” he addressed her, more of a curtesy, and Amaranth inclined her head slightly to the greeting, “I am pleased to see you, Lady Catelyn,” he returned to her, “May I present my wife, Margaery, of House Tyrell.”

‘Tedious.’ Introductions always were.

 

[Blushing]

Willow watched helplessly as her men were struck down by a volley of arrows. Some fell silently, dead before they even hit the ground. They were lucky. The others went down writhing in pain, their screams echoing between the thumps of bodies and the acute ‘tch’ of arrows that had missed their mark.

“Move, girl!” Her guardian desperately spat. “Move!”

But she wouldn’t. No matter how hard he’d pulled or how crudely he cursed Willow couldn’t bring herself to flee. She was petrified by massacre. Visibly beginning to succumb to shock. Her world slowed to a crawl as what remained of her livelihood crumbled into ruin. She could feel her chest tighten; her lungs failing to draw breath as a toxic cocktail of emotions begun to disorient her.

That’s when the hulls met. The entire ship and her crew jolted upon collision, sending the dazed Willow and many unprepared others tumbling gracelessly down onto the deck. Everything rocked to one side and then settled. The groan of the wood and sharp, metallic sound of hooks and ladders snaring into the side of the ship breaking the tense silence that had fallen unto them.

Her soldiers scrambled to rise, whereas Willow struggled to focus. The Ironborn scaled her ship with alarming efficiency. Willow had barely managed to find her feet again when the first man clambered aboard. He was followed by another and yet another, who spared no time in ruthlessly slaughtering any and all wounded in their path. The battle for Fiodoire’s Pride had begun.

Those who were able quickly set to forming a physical barrier between the raiders and their lady; closing in on them in an effort to corral them away from her.

“Give them no quarter!” A man’s enraged voice rung out. “Kill these petty thieves where they stand!” His men roared in response, charging in at the word of their commander.

“Willow.” Her guardian firmly urged as he turned to her. “You need to go below, alright? It’s not safe anymore.” She knew that. Of course she fucking knew that; but in her panic stricken state she was unable to act right away. “You know where it is. Go and hide. Don’t come out until one of us comes to get you.”

How she hated the tone of his voice. That familiar, condescending tone that everyone on this ship seemed to be so fond of. But now wasn’t the time to be bitter about petty matters. It was possible that he’d die in the confrontation anyway; so she’d heeded what could’ve been his final words.

“…And Willow.” She’d gone to flee, but was halted. “Take this.”

From an old leather sheath on his hip he’d procured a silver dagger. “Just in case.”

Willow hesitated, her gaze flitting between him and the dagger as if to question his hasty judgement. She wasn’t allowed to have weapons. Not anymore. And yet he still persisted. “Please, just take it.”

With a trembling hand, she did just that. “Now go.”

Willow hurried away. Not even sparing them a glance as she disappeared into stairwell leading into the hold below. She retreated as far away from the entrance as she could, wielding the dagger in front of her as if she were anticipating someone to have followed. But nobody came, and she’d sit alone as the battle raged above.

It felt like hours until the commotion died down again. Boots shuffled overhead, the sound of bodies being drug and thrown overboard permeating the space below. It was pure agony to wait. Willow held her breath at every noise; her imagination beginning to saturate her mind with horrific visions of what must’ve happened.

Then, she’d heard it. The distinct sound of people moving towards the hold. They spoke of something worrisome. ‘I saw her…” She’d managed to catch between the muffled banter. “She can’t hide forever…”

There were two of them, it seemed. Two unfamiliar voices undoubtedly making their merry way towards her. Down the stairs they came, but Willow couldn’t bring herself to move.

“Well now.” One of them exclaimed as he glanced her over. “Looks like this little kitty has claws. Here! We found something!”

Both he and his companion were absolutely filthy, the smell alone nearly enough to make her retch. It must’ve been months they’d been at sea.

“She looks…sick.” The other mused aloud. “Look at ‘er.” His features contorted with disgust; hesitating just before drawing too close.

Willow didn’t break eye contact with the one still making his advance. Her fatigued mind swathed in visions of dread that would come at the hands of these men. She knew her death wouldn’t be quick. No, she’d be kept alive as long as they could take from her. They’d take every opportunity to soil her, to break her like they would’ve in King’s Landing; and she couldn’t let that happen.

Willow slowly, albeit not hesitantly, raised the dagger to her throat. She’d tried to mask her fear with apathy, but the cracks were beginning to show.

‘It was inevitable.’ She’d reasoned. ‘If not at their hands, then hers. If not now, then on her wedding night.’ Death seemed to beckon everywhere she looked.

=======
​

Margaery’s interest was indeed piqued by these curious northerners. Catelyn Stark, it’d seem, had little patience for pleasantries. Completely disregarding her husband’s reign with little more than an annoyed glare. It was admirably bold; as unintentionally amusing at it was.

“You are welcome here, Lady Stark.” She’d greeted with a slow nod after she was addressed. Catelyn’s stoic glare fell unto her. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

One could tell easily how hopelessly tired she was. It was pitiful, Margaery could only imagine the constant state of dread she was living in. Her children were held as hostages. Her husband’s head was somewhere on a pike in King’s Landing. Her entire world was crumbling down around her, and yet here she was. Standing as strong as ever.

“…You are most kind.” Margaery smiled and shifted her attention to the Bolton girl at her heel. “And you as well, Lady Bolton. Welcome to the Stormlands.”

“My lady.” Renly spoke up again. “I swear to you, I will see the Lannisters answer for your husband’s murder. When I take King’s Landing, I’ll bring you Geoffrey’s head.” His subjects roared; some even threw a few obscenities at the name.

“It will be enough to know justice has been done, My lord.”

“Your Grace.” Brienne spat. “And you should kneel when you approach the king.”

Catelyn seemed like she couldn’t care less about her presence. Sparing her a fleeting glance, but not much else.

“There’s no need for that.” Renly assured. “Lady Stark is an honored guest.”

Brienne visibly shrunk, falling into silence. Loras, however, was quick to criticize.

“Has your son marched against Tywin Lannister yet?”

Margaery inwardly chuckled. Still bitter about the loss, it’d seem. But it was no excuse to needlessly taunt potential allies. Margaery was going to apologize on his behalf, but Lady Catelyn snapped right back at him.

“I do not sit on my son’s war council, and even if I did, I wouldn’t share his strategies with you.” Loras grimaced, glancing her over as if it were some sort of challenge. “If Robb Stark wants a pact with us he should come himself. Not hide behind his mother’s skirts!”
“My son is fighting a war.” She’d had it on the tip of her tongue. “Not playing at one.”

Loras was taken aback. Rendered silent by the mother wolf’s sharp tongue. Renly was visibly amused by the scene. He stood with a smile, descending down from his perch to join her and her men below. “Don’t worry, my lady. Our war is only just beginning.”

“My dear?” Renly called endearingly as he turned back towards his queen. “Will you be so kind as to join us? I have something I wish to ask of you.”

Margaery merely nodded and arose. The emerald and ivory folds of her dress cascading down onto the ground behind her. Slowly, she’d descend. Moving with the grace only a Tyrell could know.

“What is it, love?”

“I’d like to take this time to parley with Lady Catelyn. We have many crucial things to discuss, after all.” Renly then turned to Amaranth, a warm smile lingering upon his features. “In the meantime, my wife will be happy to acquaint you with the campgrounds whilst we sort out your living arrangements.”

Margaery stepped forward, head held high. “Of course! It’d be my pleasure Lady Bolton. Shall we?”

 

[Lucyfer]

It was as Yara had anticipated – the ship was not prepared to deal with a true attack, and once she was over and onto it, men began to fall like flies. Her axe found its home in the chest cavity of one, before her dagger met the space between another’s ribs. She had ripped it out soon enough, and the melee of blood and shrieks created a familiar cacophony. Her own laughter lilted above it, the grunts of exertion interrupting it, until silence fell over – save for a few cheers as her men realized the fight was over.

“Clean up!” Yara ordered, and men moved about, looting the bodies and tossing them over when finished with that act.

She didn’t move over the bodies. Her boots took her right to the captain’s cabin on the deck, nearby the stairs down. The door wasn’t locked, so it was easy to enter and take a look at what was kept safe in this room. The goods would either be here, or down in storage.

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the excess of this chamber, even if she was a touch hypocritical in the act. ‘This wasn’t earned.’ It was bought by the gold, not the iron. All the fur blankets, all the fine clothes, and touches of gold that glinted in the sunlight that spilled through the windows. She started towards the desk to rifle through it, when she heard a voice call up that something had been found.

The Captain turned from her examination of the captain’s quarters and strode down the stairs as a frail and sickly thing brought a dagger up to her own throat. Yara clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth, “Well, well. You must be what they’re so proud of,” she was the only lady on the ship, which meant more than likely, she was the true cargo. An unspoiled maiden, no doubt, set for marriage, for alliance, and all that nonsense the mainlanders did.

Not that the Iron Isles were expressly forbidden from that – plenty of marriages were made for alliances, but not all of them were honored so well.

She wasn’t interested in those kinds of games. “Put the blade down before I rip it from your hands, lady. You’re worth more to us without a pretty new scar along your throat.”

One of her men was quicker to catch the implications of her words than the other, “We found her – fair and square!”

“And do you want booty, or do you want treasures, Pavik?” Yara snapped at him. Not that it mattered his opinion. Her ship was the one to take them, and on her ship she remained captain. She was a Queen unto her men. “The lady here is worth more unspoiled than she is spoiled.”

Yara chanced a step forward, ahead of the men.

If the woman in front of her tried to act to take her own life, she was tensed to lunge and tackle her, to try and force her hand away from her own throat.

~***~

Cursory greetings were expected at this point, and the Lady Bolton gave an acknowledging nod to the Queen’s greeting, while Lady Stark insisted on being impudent. ‘What’s it matter if he’s called King?’ Were the Riverlands intending to join the North in defecting? Amaranth heard no talk of that. Perhaps it was Catelyn’s way of showing her favor to Stannis by denying Renly the title.

Eddard Stark had preferred him.

She did not vocalize these thoughts; she wasn’t there to intrude on much, but to observe, and it seemed that Renly Baratheon finally understood the discussion that Lady Catelyn desired was not one for the public, and he stepped down from his throne and all of his fun to join them on the ground.

Amaranth anticipated following, and so was surprised to hear when Renly instead wanted her dismissed, along with his Queen. She didn’t react more than by looking to Catelyn with a single arched brow.

The older woman gave a nod, “It’s all right,” she said, “No decisions regarding you will be made without your presence.”

As if that was what worried her. Nonetheless, she inclined her head, accepting the new direction before she cast her eyes over the Rose of Highgarden herself, all grace and smiles. “Of course, your grace,” she addressed the woman formally, making use of the proper title rather than ‘Lady Tyrell’.

A foreign king, a foreign queen, were nothing to her, but due the honor of their titles. The South would settle on one, eventually. It hardly mattered who she called King or Queen. If it smoothed things and fed their egos, all the better.

Lady Stark and King Renly would step off, with guards following. “How have you been finding this march, your grace?” She knew that though Renly was ‘playing’ at war, he was also making his march to King’s Landing. With the size of his army and the support he had, he stood a fairly good chance, although it would remain difficult to get through the gates.

He wouldn’t have the advantage Tywin Lannister had against the Mad King.

It rather fascinated Amaranth that everyone in the camp seemed so, well, clean, given the march. Robb’s camps were hastily built and hastily deconstructed. There were times to clean up and such, but no one was really spared the grit of it all. Margaery looked almost untouched by it, her ivory hardly stained.

 

[Blushing]

‘Well, well. You must be what they’re so proud of.’

Willow hadn’t even noticed the third until she’d reached the bottom of the stairwell. Her panicked gaze flicked around until it landed on her; confusion splayed unflatteringly across her freckled features.

The men’s behavior shifted in her presence. It was subtle, but one could easily tell that she carried some sort of weight between them. She swaggered forward and glanced Willow over. There was something about her oddly confident demeanor that caused her stomach to knot with dread, but not just that. Beneath the fear and desperation something else festered too.

Bitterness. Resentment. Spite. Things that’d only intensified upon her halfhearted scoff of a command to forfeit her weapon. For a moment, Willow found herself pondering her chances of killing one. Just one; more than a fair price for what they’d done to her men and what they were inevitably going to do to her. She wanted the woman. Whoever she was, she seemed important. Important enough to quash the men’s protest when she’d made her intents for Willow known.

They squabbled like children; but as she’d assumed it was the woman who’d gotten the final say. Both men glared at Willow, but her attention was on the one playing captain. She boldly stepped forward, daring her victim to make a move.

Willow stumbled back just as quick. Her trembling hand still keeping the blade firmly pressed against her flesh. The slightest bit had caught skin, sending vibrant droplets of crimson trickling down her throat. It was so close. A mere inch deeper and it’d all be over.

It was then the Ironborn tensed. Her steely glare was now wholly fixed on her, searching for any signs she may act upon her silent threat. Willow dared her. Not verbally, but with the slightest shift of her tired eyes.

If she’d really deemed Willow worthwhile, she would chance a wound. Perhaps worse. Anyone could be dangerous when backed into a corner, after all.

=======​

“The March? I’ve fared well. My beloved has seen to that.” The queen replied warmly, almost proudly. “But overall, I feel it’s been a bit…uneventful.” The word ‘uneventful’ had come curiously, with the slightest waver of her otherwise pleasant smile. It was as if there was a slightly less palatable term she’d intended, but had corrected herself at the last moment.

‘Tedious’ could’ve fit there. Perhaps even ‘tiresome’ if she was feeling particularly cheeky. Though, they were far too distasteful for a queen speaking of her husband’s pursuits. 'Uneventful' left wiggle room. It denoted neither bad nor good, with plenty left up to one’s own interpretation.

Margaery wasn’t going to openly admit she hardly felt that they were at war. That their progress on actually marching on King’s Landing was, at the very least, lacking. She didn’t want to reinforce Catelyn’s little quips, no matter how truthful they may be.

“…But I suppose today has been a pleasant change of pace.” The tournament. Margaery usually loved to indulge herself in such things, but she did imagine it was an awkward thing to happen on in the midst of a supposed war encampment. Catelyn hardly bothered to hide her contempt, but she was somewhat curious to the Bolton’s opinions of them. “One we certainly needed, to be sure.”

Likely the same, it was an easy enough conclusion to make. But her place at Catelyn’s heel was curious. Margaery knew she hadn’t come here on a whim; there was a reason behind her presence. One she couldn’t discern quite yet.

“Come, Lady Bolton.” Margaery invited with a small gesture. “Let us walk a bit. I’m sure you’re eager to stretch your legs after such a long ride.”

But that was likely the last thing she wanted to do in that vibrantly thick, northern garb. Poor woman already seemed smothered by the southern heat, but there was little else for them to do whilst they settled their arrangements.

Margaery begun to make her way out of the thinning crowd, urging her newfound companion to follow suit. Behind them, two guardsmen had fallen in line. Before them, the crowd begun to part for their queen. “You must tell me of your own travels. I’d love to hear all about your journey south.”

 

[Lucyfer]

The lady before her did not offer the blade she held to her own throat. Rather, the step that Yara had taken seemed to cause her to press it deeper into her own skin. Intentional or not, for Yara wasn’t certain based on the shaky step, the red beading on her throat was obvious enough for Yara not to remain paused where she was.

That, and the daring look that followed, without a word yet from the Pride of the ship.

Once her foot settled, she was already adjusting her weight and lunging forward at the woman who had tried to add distance, who threatened her own life. Perhaps Yara could have talked her down, but she was never one to prefer words to action, and that look told Yara enough. Despite appearances, there was resolve in this woman.

Was it fear?

Was it anger?

It mattered little in the moment, but it may come to matter later – to know the motive that would end this woman’s life.

In either case, presuming the woman was not quick in moving away, Yara would collide with her form to bring her to the ground. She would attempt to snake a hand around the woman’s slender wrist and pull it from her neck – pin her wrist to the ground as Yara would drop her weight down and straddle her to keep the lady down. She expected a bit of a fuss and resistance to all of this, but the woman didn’t seem to weigh much at all, and seemed sickly besides. She was not anticipating much once she had her pinned.

Only once she was certain of the knife being away from the lady’s throat, or being any cause for fuss at all, would she consider how to proceed from there, although she was already fairly certain it was going to involve a bit of rope. How much, and whether to let the lady walk, were other matters entirely.

~***~

Uneventful was the word of choice for the march, and Lady Margaery thanked her beloved for her own state. Uneventful was a word the Northern forces would love to hear. Uneventful meant the Lannister army was far from their own, and their scouts gave them some clearance to rest – albeit, not easily. It was not a word Lady Bolton was accustomed to even on the ride here, where she and Lady Catelyn had to be careful to avoid detection, even though they were a small party.

Margaery’s own praise of the tournament they had stumbled upon earned just as little reaction as the other comment. Amaranth had learned from her Lord Father well how to keep her face a mask, a placid thing that accepted information without judgment. It wasn’t without some emotion, though – the curiosity of her own gaze kept it more on the positive side. ‘It seems a way to waste good soldiers.’ That was what she thought, wondering how either Margaery or Renly could approve of injury of this fashion.

She didn’t ask, but nodded to the words of walking. True, she wanted to do anything else. Mostly, to be somewhere she could strip off this heavy dress, but she wasn’t going to complain.

Weakness was not something to showcase.

She took in the colorful tents, representing so many houses, so many armies, gathered together. They had the numbers to make an impact. ‘More than Stannis by far.’ Neither were likely to agree to Robb’s declaration, foolish as they were to begin with.

“I am afraid it has not been so uneventful as your own journey North, your grace,” Lady Bolton kept her tone soft, not quite a whisper, but nearly. “We have spent much of the time off traditional roads to avoid Lannister forces, and so been at the mercy of environments and animals more often than not,” the animals did not bother her so much, though Lady Catelyn still flinched in the night to hear wolves howling. “The situation improved the close we came to your encampment, of course. It is no wonder your own luck has been so good – the Lord Lannister does not seem to be paying much mind to your beloved’s march.”

Amaranth couldn’t help but wonder if that was foolish on his part, or not. Tywin wasn’t known for being foolhardy…or for losing wars. “I suspect there is little point to moving against anyone yet when it seems your beloved is set to go against his own brother.” Best to wait it out and see who survived. “Pray, you have siblings of your own – how do you feel of this situation?”

Amaranth could not have imagined drawing against Domeric – although Ramsay she’d split in two if given a quarter of a chance.

 

[Blushing]

Willow’s delusion of confidence was only ever fleeting. It’d taken a mere a moment of hesitation for her to lose it all. A single, fleeting thought of ‘what if’ that provided just the opportunity the pillager sought.

She was seized. Roughly. Calloused hands found her wrists and gripped so tightly she swore they were going to snap. The Ironborn was ruthless, ironically hellbent on saving Willow from herself. She was to be taken alive. Alive and unsoiled, left pristine to ensure the highest possible price, but apparently not wholly unscathed.

How badly Willow wanted to resist, but she simply couldn’t manage much of a struggle. Any efforts against her captor proved vain. Unbearably, agonizingly vain. She wasn’t nearly strong enough to oppose the innate brutality of Ironborn. Not anymore.

It was of no use to fight now. In letting herself live, she’d forfeited her salvation. Her indecision had damned her to a fate undoubtedly worse than death. Her life was over in a whole new meaning now; and she’d practically given it to them.

The dagger was torn from her throat and safely held at bay. They were uncomfortably close now, her presence suddenly becoming ever more oppressive. She felt choked without a hand ever finding her throat. Yet, all struggles ceased as her world come to pause.

It was then that Willow was, quite literally, swept off her feet. It was hardly a graceful affair, with both women collapsing onto the grimy floor with a resounding ‘thud’. She felt shattered, left utterly helpless as the Ironborn set to pinning her ailing wrists to the wood below. Willow couldn’t believe she was being straddled by such filth. The resentment welling within her was almost enough to stave away the pain still coursing through her body. Almost, but not nearly enough to rouse her into struggling again.

So, she lay there in pieces. Left at the whim of a mangy, bloodthirsty pirate. Willow could feel her sea salt encrusted hair splayed out behind her in bushels of thin, ebony thread. Her deep green dress, once the pinnacle of northern craftsmanship, was now left messily strewn across her form in a rather awkward fashion. She felt like a banshee. It’d likely be a miracle that anyone would willingly part with their coin for her at all. Unsoiled or otherwise.

“Is this how you get off, love? Willow choked out in a frayed, spiteful tone. “Toying with the helpless? Pillaging? Dealing in slavery?” Oh, if looks could kill.

Was she mad? Quite possibly, with either usage of the term applying here. Did it really matter anymore? Not really. Her world as she knew it was gone. Now, she was little more than a piece of treasure in their haul. She may as well spit a bit of venom while she still could.

=======

​

‘Oh?’ Margaery interjected rather suddenly. She had assumed as such. Everyone had heard the stories, the ones that float down from the north carried on eager whispers. They certainly weren’t uneventful.

She could hardly imagine the conditions of such travel. There were times even here, in the extravagance of it all, that she felt burdened. “Oh, you poor dear.” The words were spoken with the utmost empathy, but they too were a formality. A token to extend her sympathies as not to appear aloof. When she’d mentioned the Lannister’s attention however, or rather, the lack thereof, she’d merely nod.

It was true. The Lannisters haven’t really had any presence in their territories. Margaery Tyrell was still a bit naïve on certain matters, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew Tywin was no fool. Renly knew Tywin was no fool. He was a warlord with a history of surprising feats. If he chose to not yet take action, there was thought in it. A method in his supposed madness.

It’d come as no surprise that she’d mention Stannis. He was a potent player in this too, one that could prove problematic later on. Margaery often found herself pondering how their inevitable reunion would play out. She’d imagine Tywin was curious of the same, and was hoping there’d be blood. After all, why bother wasting your forces when your enemies might just thin themselves?

But that was a bridge to be crossed in time. Perhaps burned. Only the Seven knew now.

“I suspect you’d be right.” Margaery agreed with a curious hum. “But making a claim on the throne has always been a precarious affair. It’s only natural for heirs to squabble, any brothers really, but this might be different.” It would be war. Not exactly a ‘petty squabble’ anymore. It would be exactly what Tywin wanted. “Now, I would never raise a hand to Loras. I simply couldn’t! I can only imagine what strife my love must be going through. I do hope it won’t come to the worst, but it isn’t looking like Stannis will renounce his claim willingly.”

Margaery gave a halfhearted shrug, her honied brunette curls tumbling across her shoulders as she did so. “We can only wait and hope he comes to his senses. Before it’s too late.”

She flashed a smile. Her warm, welcoming demeanor never faltering. It likely wouldn’t be long now before Renly’s men hunted them down to show them to her tents. A little more time for the delicate art of small talk.

“Anyway…” Margaery trailed off, clearly eager to change the less than desirable subject. “We are glad to have you here. Though, it’s a shame it couldn’t be under more pleasant circumstances. I would’ve loved to host you somewhere more…fitting.” She let her gaze wander a bit, as if to make a point. “But I suppose you wouldn’t bother coming all this way to suffer in the heat unless it was absolutely necessary.”

And then, her tone shifted. As if she were finally getting to what she’d had on her mind. “So, tell me, why exactly have you come all this way? I’d imagine Lady Stark is searching for an alliance. It wouldn’t be too hard of an endeavor if she were. Renly seems to absolutely adore her!”

 

[Lucyfer]

Yara Greyjoy’s gambit had been a success. The noble woman was beneath her, the dagger no longer a threat, and the woman was left with only vitriolic words. A wicked grin graced Yara’s lips and she leaned further down – though she was careful to keep her face a few inches above. Perhaps the dark-haired woman could spit on her face, but she didn’t need her nose being bitten off.

“Why, love, is it helping you get off for once?” She teased, her voice lowered into something that might have been called sultry, as she moved her thumb across the bit of bare flesh of the woman’s wrist, a light caress.

Such an insult was hardly going to bother Yara. She’d been talked down to often enough for her life choices and learned long ago to pay it no mind. She wasn’t about to heed it from some mainlander who’s only role in life was to birth some fat lord’s children and naught else. “Or are you jealous?”

Teeth flashed as her lips widened in a grin, before she’d draw herself back up, the heat of her breath leaving the woman’s face. “Aye now, can I get some rope down here already? We have a much bigger prize than what’s on the rest of this ship!” She snapped. “And someone take’er damned dagger.”

One of the men down there with her moved to do just that, walking around the two women and lowering himself with a grunt to pull the dagger from the woman’s hand. Yara had no intention of letting her hold weaken, or letting go, even after the dagger was removed and the woman was, supposedly, helpless.

Yara knew better than to underestimate anyone.

“So then, do you have a name you prefer, or shall I continue to find lovely little pet names for you, sweetheart?” Yara asked, as she heard steps descending behind her. Someone with rope, no doubt. A way for her to finally restrain the woman and get her up and above, and then onto her new ship.

She’d be spending a lot of time there. Briefly, the Captain wondered if she should spare a thought for the woman’s clothing, or if she ought to leave that behind out of spite.

Thoughts of the smell overrode thoughts of spite, soon enough. It was already evident the woman had stopped taking care of herself at some point in this trip. Maybe even before it.

~***~

If Margaery faulted Renly for his stance, it did not show in her words. She wouldn’t strike her own brother, and evidently she did not want this battle to occur, but she didn’t speak as if the younger brother were in the wrong. It was Stannis she wanted to come to his senses. ‘But of course.’ Amaranth had hardly suspected much, but she would admit some interest in how Margaery navigated it, all the same.

And, of course, she was quick to move around it, all warmth and cheer as she smiled and spoke of hosting her in other circumstances. Silently, Lady Bolton inclined her head in appreciation of the consideration of it, but did not speak as to whether or not she would venture South on her own volition.

Nothing good ever came of Northerners heading South. They tended to die or be changed, like her brother. Like Eddard.

‘I am certain the feeling is mutual, little flower.’ Margaery would wilt in the North.

At the query of her presence, she did take a moment to consider how to answer. She had little intention of lying, but the whole truth was certainly not to be disclosed. She could hardly say that her father didn’t trust Catelyn. “There are advantages that an unwed heir brings to the table,” Amaranth decided to answer.

Ramsay was yet a bastard.

He would remain that way, until he died. Which, Amaranth would see to herself, if necessary. He wouldn’t be taking the Dreadfort from her. “It may be in the bitter North, but the Dreadfort holdings are quite large, and quite rich. My lord father has allowed me choice in the matter, but ensuring victory for the North seems as good a reason as any to consider options here, if it helps. Lady Catelyn seems to have a penchant for sealing alliances with marriages, and she is here to seek an alliance.”

With Stannis, more than Renly – and thankfully she’d not be expected to marry Stannis, but his wife had family, and other lords on his side. If it served to gain Northern freedom and seal an alliance, it seemed a fair endeavor.

Although, Amaranth doubted she would find much of…quality, in the South.

 

[Blushing]

Slowly, mockingly; the woman grew ever closer. Willow blinked, but otherwise didn’t flinch. She seemed all too proud of herself. All too eager to tease once her prey was rendered defenseless.

It sickened her, it enraged her; made her stomach knot and writhe like it never had before. And yet, she held her tongue, choosing not to feed into the mockery. She carried on regardless. Her unanswered quip punctuated by a delicate, fleeting caress across the sore flesh of her wrist.

There would be bruises there, she was certain of it. Perhaps worse. Such a light touch, and she found herself shuddering. Pain, she’d imagined, would become a close friend in the days to come. She felt akin to a lamb. Coddled, protected; kept safe from the wolves until it’d come time for slaughter. There would be no more green pastures for her. Ever again.

‘Or are you jealous?’

She spoke like a lover. Playful, suggestive, boastful; enough to make her sunken features contort with confusion upon hearing it. Satisfied, she’d raise her head once more to loom over her quarry. Her warmth replaced by the ever-lingering chill of the hold.

Once she’d had her fun, their captain spared no time in barking orders. Maybe she wasn’t just playing the part after all. One of the two who stood eagerly behind her stepped over to claim her weapon. His rough, dirtied nails pried her hand open, taking both the dagger and bits of skin in the effort. He then dangled it over her, flashing his rotting teeth in a shit-eating grin as if he’d had something to be proud of. The shuffling above, she’d assumed, were the others frantically searching for the rope she’d demanded. They’d really been brought to heel, it’d seem; and she was looking to do the same with her.

But before that, apparently came the pleasantries. She wanted her name. A luxury that would be lost on her soon enough. There were no lords or ladies in slavery, after all. She was cargo. Nameless, faceless. A young, unsoiled woman to be bid away at the first opportunity.

“Willow.” She’d rasped in spite of it all. “Willow Fiodoire.” Perfect; a young, unsoiled lady would earn far more coin. “The first and only child of Lord Fiodoire.”

There was no pride in her words. It was little more than a listless mutter, not the usual grand declaration that come with most of the introductions to the great houses. Though, she supposed hers was never great to begin with.

The nature of conversation dictated that she, now, ask her name. But Willow hardly cared for a woman who’d spent the better part of ten minutes straddling her and spitting taunts. She said not a word more, her attention now falling onto another skinny leather-clad man slowly making his way down into the hold. He bore a frayed rope and a grin, his hungry gaze sweeping over her as he approached the scene.

“Here.” He offered. “It’s all I could find.”

It was more than enough. Willow was forcibly hoisted up, her captor careful to keep her wrists held tight behind her as her crewmen bound her. Her legs threatened to collapse again, but she managed. Even as she was being pushed back up into the sun, she managed. Albeit just barely.

It wasn’t the woman that held her now. It was the two foul-smelling men who’d stumbled across her earlier, she was sure of it. They paraded her before the rest of the Ironborn. Their collective gaze falling onto mess of a woman that was Willow. Most of them smirked, some went out of their way to call out to her. To taunt her. She expected little else from such a culture.

She was urged past them towards the dark wood and blackened sails of their own ship. All she could bring herself to focus on was the iconic, golden kraken.

“C’mon, love.” One of them spoke as they approached where the hulls had met. “Up an’ over.” Before she could even think to protest, two burly hands found her waist and hoisted her up. Thankfully, she wasn’t dropped. Yet.

=======​

‘There are advantages that an unwed heir brings to the table.’

How could Margaery have been so naive? She’d never particularly cared for the goings on of the northern families, but she should have assumed a maiden as fair as she had a larger part to play here.

“Oh, how exciting!” Margaery fawned. “At least you’re free to pursue as you like. I’m sure there will come a lord soon enough that’ll strike your fancy.” There were already a few that came to mind, but one stood out from the rest. Loras. Her sibling was, as she’d imagine, still very desirable. Noble born, with sizeable wealth and claim to the most fertile lands in all of Westeros. Something potentially seductive to a northerner like herself.

It roused her curiosity, but also had her a trifle nervous. What if Loras became the target for such an arrangement? Surely, Renly wouldn’t allow such a thing to happen. It was far too much of a risk. If it did come to it, their king would make the right choice. But it wouldn’t, right?

Just then, three of Renly’s men emerged from the dispersing crowd. “My Queen.” One greeted, lowering his head as he approached. “We were ordered to fetch Lady Bolton upon settling her arrangements.” He then shifted his attention to Amaranth. “My Lady, if I may, I’ll escort you to your tent.”

Margaery glanced the man over, her warm expression wavering ever so slightly. “Does the king require my presence?”

“No, Your grace.”

“Then I’ll stay right here, by her side.” A part of it was curiosity. To know where she’d be just in case something went awry, and exactly why she was seemingly being urged elsewhere. “Unless you’re that keen on sending me away.” It’d come in a teasing fashion, but it was evident that there was a touch of an accusation there.

“Of course not, Your Grace.” He’d said after an uneasy chuckle. “If you’d both please follow me.”

Margaery would give a soft, pleased hum and continue on after him. Together, they’d weave through the vibrant, flowing tents and curious crowd. The guardsmen careful to keep enough space between them and the onlookers, of whom were very curious at the sight of the newcomer.

Eventually, they’d come to a halt at the end of a row of tents. These were slightly bigger than most that neighbored them, furnished with everything a lady could need and more. One, Margaery assumed, was Catelyn’s. The one on the end however, as evident by the men’s direction, was alloted to Amaranth. Their guides departed with another inclination of the head, disappearing into the bustling encampment as quickly as they’d appeared.

“I do hope this will suffice.” Margaery mused upon gazing at the tent. “My love taken great care to see you accommodated appropriately, I’m sure…” She’d pause, as if to ponder her choice of words. “But, I would still very much like to be invited inside. The camp is almost unbearable in this heat – and I’m dressed for it!”

 

[Lucyfer]

Willow Fiodoire was the name of the woman they had found, and indeed, she was the prize, and the pride, of Fiodoire. Being the only child, she was likely worth a fortune to the family, returned and unspoiled. House Fiodoire was not as familiar to Yara as names like Tully or Stark, but if anything, that made the situation better.

She heard what happened when the Lannisters had been crossed over their dwarf.

God knew how annoying they’d be if it had been Cersei or Myrcella. But a family like Fiodoire did not have such power. They’d negotiate. They’d pay a ransom for her.

Yara Greyjoy only moved once the rope was brought, and Willow was hauled to her feet and bound, trussed up nicely for her future as a hostage. It was then Yara moved off to help in the search for other goods, and the niceties the lady likely owned that could go with her. She could hear the shouts above the deck, and it only inspired a small smile to stay on her lips, and for her to roll her eyes.

‘Men.’

At least her men were well trained beasts, even if they were still beasts. She could throw a steak in front of them, or in this case, a young woman, and tell them no, and they’d come to heel. They would not harm the woman more than was absolutely necessary to get her on the boat, and Yara half-suspected more might be necessary to get her on the boat. She didn’t know.

She did know they would need to treat her cuts, and so along with the supplies of food, the clothes of the women, and what gold they could find, Yara also made sure they restocked on any medical supplies they could find. It was always in scarcity on her ship; the Ironborn in general didn’t care much for poultices and potions, but she was aware of how useful it was to prolonging life.

If someone wanted to argue about it not being tough, they could die.

Yara was back on the deck as one of her men hefted the light woman over his shoulders, and she called, “Bring her to my cabin,” she may be able to trust her men, but she didn’t trust the woman yet, and she still had wounds to clean up.

“Aye, captain,” the man holding the woman said, before they all found their way over to the longship.

Yara made one last check of the Pride, noting the oil spread over it, before she went over herself. “Pass me the bandages and medicine already, would you?” She called out, as someone notched an arrow and shot it over, flaming, to put an end to the pride as their ship started to drift away, and Willow was taken towards the cabin on the deck that was Yara’s own quarters while she was on the sea.

Which, really, was all the time.

Willow would be greeted with quarters that were a bit of a mismatch. There was a permanent structure in the all-important table where maps could be laid out and plans concocted, as well as the fixture of the bed, overlain with furred blankets, and a closet of clothing hanging up, but beyond that, the trinkets within were a mismatch of cultures and likes, things that Yara had paid the iron price for, ranging from a Myrish lense to an expensive-looking bottle of wine.

And, of course, plenty of weapons, kept up on the walls by hooks.

The man would not leave the woman in there alone; her act to try and cut her throat had already proven she needed watched, even if it was awkward to await Yara’s return to her own quarters.

At least that wouldn’t be long. Yara would return with her arms full of bandages and tinned salves.

~***~

Exciting would not have been the term Amaranth drew forth at her fate. If anything, it was utterly mundane, but she wouldn’t deny that when she was far younger, she’d had thoughts of marriage that were more optimistic. She knew, of course, she’d never be wed against her will. That much, she and her father had worked out, after she had confronted him about Ramsay. She doubted she would find the spark that would make it so exciting once again; she was not the naïve little girl she had once been.

She did not have the same dreams as that foolish little girl who wanted to see so much more of the world. Now she only wanted her piece of it, and to keep her piece of it.

Still, she did not contradict the Queen, only kept that small smile on her lips and nodded silently at her assessment, before they were disturbed by the king’s host, who had set up her place. She did not find it so strange that the Queen was dismissed, until the Queen herself brought it up, and seemed rather…annoyed with it, if the accusatory tone could mean anything.

The nervous chuckle of the guard also made her wonder at it. Why did they want to part them?

Nonetheless, the pair went together, across so many vibrant tents and among so many vibrant people. It did spark in her a curiosity for the South, for the Reach in particular where she assumed most of them were from, but she did not speak to that.

As they reached the tents, she heard Margaery, but her gaze was looking about for anything unusual. For her horse. For the small bit of a cart they had with them for their supplies. Her eyes finally found the dappled mare, a white and gray that had served her brother up to his death. She left her own stallion back with her lord father and took her second horse here.

‘There she—’

‘—is, the lady like my master.’ The horse lifted its head in excitement, as Margaery was saying something about the heat, and for a flicker of a moment Amaranth saw herself and saw Margaery from another vantage, a rather dizzying effect.

It was not the first time.

It would not be the last time.

Amaranth blamed the heat as her mind reeled back and she found herself starting to fall. She caught herself and straightened up before she did, refocusing her vision on the tent, and grasping for memory of what Margaery had been saying.

The heat. Yes, of course.

Amaranth drew her fingers up to her hair and pushed strands aside, “If you are so hot, it is no wonder I am suffering; your attire would be considered terribly indecent in the North, and mine is terribly improper for here,” as if her slight stumble could be associated with that, even if she looked paler, somehow, rather than burnt. A sweat had broken across her brow that had nothing to do with heat.

The mare let out a startled sound and pulled a moment at the rope, but Amaranth ignored it, “You may join me,” she offered, before she stepped into the tent. The shade of it was cooler, and thankfully, in spite of how enclosed it was, it did not seem humid.

It was set up nicely, some of her own things already within, and she spied her bow, and her swords, their white gleaming in the dark of the tent.

It made her wonder, and wonder aloud, “Perhaps your love’s men were only nervous for your sake.” The weapons might worry any, to leave their Queen alone with a woman who had, and could use, them.

A weirwood bow was hardly for show, but for the expert shot.

She didn’t go towards those weapons, of course. Not at first, anyways. There was a bowl of water and she dipped her hands into it and brought it to her face, to help remove the sensation of earlier, and try cool herself a bit, as well.

It was oppressively hot, and now she couldn’t even dress down because of company.

 

[Blushing]

It was almost comical just how easily she was hoisted over the man’s shoulders. His grip was iron, threatening to crush her if she dared moved too much. It was humiliating. Is that all these people knew?

Their captain sauntered back up from below, both she and her men bearing many of the necessities that had been so painstakingly prepared for this journey. They’d taken everything. Her clothes, medicine, food; anything that wasn’t a part of the ship’s own anatomy had been pilfered. If she were lucky, perhaps she’d be spared a dress or two.

The orders were given, and she was forcibly carried over. He jumped down onto the hull, the impact earning a stifled whine from Willow. Amused, he’d give a little squeeze. Just enough to empty what was left in her lungs.

All others followed behind them, where the woman continued to shout orders. She wasn’t what held her attention, however. What had started a fleeting bit of ember coasting on the wind quickly became the beginnings of the end for the Pride. The spark grew inexplicably quickly, enveloping every inch of the ship in tall, dancing flames.

Willow, perhaps fortunately, wasn’t able to bear witness to its grand descent into the briny depths. She wasn’t quite sure why she was smiling, borderline sobbing at the idea of it. Maybe she had gone mad after all.

She was brought into the captain’s quarters, as they’d been instructed, and dropped onto the ground. It was by pure luck that she’d managed to land on her feet, but it wasn’t exactly a graceful affair.

Willow could still faintly sense the familiar, somewhat comforting scent of burning word. Even here, trapped inside a cabin far too small for the tension that also permeated the air. Willow was certain that he hadn’t blinked once on his vigil. Every movement she made warranted a warning grunt, but it was soon ignored as she took it upon herself to explore the space. After all, what harm could she do with her arms bound?

It was a plethora of plunder. Each piece more curious than the last. Weapons, clothing, furs; all of excellent quality. She pondered for a moment if any of her own dresses would be taken, but she was soon snapped from her thoughts by the door swinging open to reveal the captain behind it.

In her arms, she bore supplies. Their supplies, and her intent was very clear. Willow arched a dark brow, her gaze sweeping over the woman as she stepped forward. She couldn’t be serious, right? Then again, it was evident that this woman took great care of her more costly possessions. She would likely be no different, but the idea wasn’t nearly seductive enough to coax her into total cooperation.

“What’s this then?” Willow purred, a hint of contempt poorly hiding beneath her tone. “That eager to play with your new plaything, are you?”

=======

​

Margaery glanced down, perhaps innately, at her own attire. It was tailored for her, anything that threatened to peek was merely a tease. Nothing was going to truly be exposed unless she willed it. But, she supposed that even in the heat of the south ‘indecent’ would’ve been the term many others would’ve used too. The old, the sagged, and the jealous. All secretly pining for something they’d lost or would never have.

‘Improper?’ Margaery couldn’t help but narrow her gaze onto the other woman. It wasn’t malice behind her eyes, however. It was concern. Perhaps she’d hoped Margaery hadn’t noticed it, it was subtle after all. The flutter of eyes, her pallid complexion, the way she’d hastily corrected herself. Something was wrong, and it worried her.

And she wasn’t the only one, it’d seem. The mare, her mare Margaery supposed, had been roused into state of agitation at the sight of his master faltering. It was a beautiful beast, dappled gray with a surprising amount of emotion in its eyes. Concern, maybe? That too, worried her.

Upon receiving the invitation, Margaery would incline her head and follow her inside. More than eager to escape the heat and prying eyes of those outside. Inside, it had been furnished just as intricately as she’d hoped. Most of her belongings had already seemingly been unloaded, a few weapons glinting in the faint sunlight seeping inside. An impressive spread, at that.

“Perhaps.” Margaery hummed. “I suppose they’d think I wouldn’t be able to manage myself. Silly, isn’t it?” A playful chuckle would punctuate her little quip, but her demeanor soon shifted.

“Lady Bolton, you’d tell me if you felt ill, wouldn’t you?” Margaery approached from behind her, delicately placing a slim, pale hand on her shoulder as she did so. “You look…pale. Is there anything I can offer you? Anything I can do?”

Margaery knew there was little to be done if she were merely suffering from heat exhaustion. Water, shade, a bit of rest maybe. She likely wanted to strip away those layers and lounge about until Catelyn returned. But, alas, she was the one entertaining now; and she certainly didn’t appear the type to do so upon first meeting. Unfortunately.

 

[Lucyfer]

Although Willow had ceased moving when she returned, Yara could tell that the woman had been up and about, examining her things. She obviously wasn’t where Antol would have placed her; she doubted Antol moved much at all from where he stood. "Would you be a dear and remove her bindings? I don't think we need them anymore."

He grunted, but he moved as directed, and he would reach to cut Willow's bindings with his own blade, before being dismissed with an easy wave of her hand. She didn’t need his presence any longer.

He wouldn't offer a word of farewell, but turned towards the door as Willow spoke. “Well it’s not like I’m going to just sit around and stare at a new toy,” Yara answered, “They’re meant to be played with, or were you not given very many as a child?”

She didn’t cross to her table, but towards her bed, where she fell back onto it, sitting upright. “Now, come over here, and let me see your wounds.”

She didn’t think it’d be that easy.

Willow had nearly killed herself, after all.

“Or do I need to come grab your hand and tie you up onto the bed?” Her own purr came into her voice at that as she leaned over the items in her lap, a wicked grin crossing her lips. She didn’t think the young lady would enjoy such a suggestive statement. It might spur her over peacefully – with scoffing and the likely, but peacefully all the same.

If not, Yara certainly had no qualms making it a bit…rough.

Though, it’d be far better in the long run if the lady just played along with it all. Yara didn’t want to consider what a nightmare it might be otherwise trying to get her into a tub without ruining what clothes the lady had left. Not that Yara would mind ruining them, exactly, but it wouldn’t be good to return the lady naked as the day she was born to her family.

They might doubt she was unspoiled if she was returned in such a state. Then getting the ransom would be difficult.

As if such a thing as virginity truly mattered.

Most men weren’t seeking virgins in brothels.

~***~

The water did little to help, in truth. It was cooler than the outside, but it was hardly cold. Right then, Amaranth craved cold. Ice. A chilled breeze with snow in it to smack against her face and wake her right back up, but none of it was to come. She was in the South, where a cold breeze on a hot day would still be too warm for her.

Her alertness seemed to be down as well. She heard Margaery walk up to her after her little giggle over the weapons.

She might have challenged her assertion on another day – but the thought had only become an inkling of something entertaining before there was a hand on her shoulder and she flinched. It was a reaction she might have had a hope of stopping if water didn’t obscure her vision a bit, but alas, she did not.

Cold hands and warm hearts may have applied to plenty in the North, but not the Boltons. Open affection was something to be suspicious of. ‘If you fall ill, it will look bad for her, that is all.’ Her mind wrote in a selfish narrative to cover Margaery’s attempt at concern. She would be concern – not because of kindness, but for her own sake and her own reputation.

Which should mean she would help, if it was needed.

“I am pale, your grace,” she reminded, a touch of sardonic humor at the dry statement. “I have never found that to be an ill,” of course she knew what Margaery was asking.

She had noticed her stumble. “I am merely tired. I have been riding a while, and food on the road is hardly good. Not to mention the fact I have been covered well this entire trip. It has kept me less burnt than I would otherwise be, but it has certainly not helped in other aspects of the trip. I almost wonder if it wouldn’t be better to burn,” rather than sweat and suffer in the heat.

Her leathers certainly needed airing out. “But I will be fine, your grace.”

 

[Blushing]

With salves and bandages in hand, the captain sauntered deeper into her quarters. She passed Willow a glance as she carried on, making her way over to the bed nestled in the corner of the room. Carelessly, she fell onto it; her attention fixed on her visibly exhausted ‘plaything’.

Willow blinked, drawing a sigh as she met her gaze. What she desired of her was unmistakable. The Ironborn beckoned without ever lifting a finger, her mocking grin daring her to defy her wish.

'...Or do I need to come grab your hand and tie you up onto the bed?'

Willow’s hesitation wouldn’t have been hard to sense. It seemed more an invitation, however. Thinly veiled in the guise of a threat. She couldn’t help but stifle a scoff. This was the woman who’d slaughtered her men and burned her ship; and now was playing at an invitation to bed.

It only served to embitter Willow. Evident in the way she’d glared at her captor, her pallid cheeks managing the slightest brush of color in her offense. She’d nearly slit her own throat and was possibly slipping into madness. Humoring her was something she couldn’t bring herself to do, but she knew it wasn’t just a tease. A veiled threat was still just that, a threat. One which the brute would gladly act on given the mere sliver of a chance.

The thought alone was enough for her to tense. Willow really didn’t need to be reminded of the ruthlessness she was capable of. So, she took a step on her own accord, swallowing what was left of her pride to avoid unnecessary hostilities.

Slowly, Willow made her way over to her bedside, sitting down as she had. The furs and blankets were a small pleasure. What she wouldn’t give to be able to wrap herself in them, to lose herself in the comfort and sleep for an eternity. But she wouldn’t be allowed even a taste of that luxury. No, instead she was to be haphazardly bandaged by a pillager. One with blood on her hands and dirt beneath her nails, no less.

Would it still be considered suicide if she died from an infection?

Willow raised her head, revealing the dried streaks and blotches of crimson sullying her throat. Unfortunately, the cut itself wasn’t too deep. A slight nick that would likely heal without even a scar. A wet cloth was really the only thing she needed, but she wasn’t exactly in the position to refuse her ‘care’.

“So…” Willow begun, her tone losing all semblance of confidence. “I suppose before we become so intimate, I ought to at least know your name.”

=======​

“Very well, my lady.” Margaery relented as she delicately withdrew her hand. Northerners could be stubborn, but they were just as easily some of the most resilient people in Westeros. Amaranth could do without her coddling, surely. A day’s rest and a fresh, filling meal would likely have her right as rain.

Margaery's attention naturally wandered back to Amaranth after a moment or two. She stood perfectly poised, albeit bit flustered with little partially dried droplets of water still glistening on her porcelain skin. Or was it sweat?

Poor dear. She seemed to be holding it together, but Margaery knew she really ought to leave her to her rest. Or at least allow her time to change into something more agreeable. Given she actually possessed something more agreeable. For some reason, she found herself doubting that.

Again, she’d glance her over. It was all too easy to picture her in something lighter. Something flowing perhaps, with her hair pinned up or curled into. Red certainly was her color, but it was also a beautiful summer shade. Perhaps she’d consider having her seamstress fashion a gift for her. She was, after all, potentially meeting her future husband during her visit. That, and of course, to sate Margaery’s own curiosity.

“Then I shan’t feel guilty about keeping you from your rest, then.” The queen giggled in a playful manner as she moved past her towards a table with two intricate chairs at either end. “But really, lady Bolton, it may not mean much in my saying it, but I want you to be at ease in my presence.”

It was easier said than done and she knew this. A Bolton wouldn’t see this invitation as she’d meant it. No, there had to be an underlying reason for a queen to be so open with a foreign envoy; and she’d partially be right.

Margaery had grown bored. Not with Amaranth, but nearly everyone else in the camp. Loras spent most of his time alone with Renly, and she rarely saw any conversation outside of the normal queenly discourse. It was monotonously maddening. All she wanted was a small respite. A break from the world outside this tent.

Upon the table was a pitcher of both wine and water and a few chalices, along with a bountiful bowl of plump fruit no doubt procured from Highgarden’s own orchards. Margaery smoothed out the layers of her dress and took one of the seats, inviting Amaranth to join her with a fleeting gesture and a warm smile.

“Come, love.” She encouraged. “Indulge with me.”

 

[Lucyfer]

There was still fire in the young woman. It blossomed across Willow's face and tried to light her eyes up, but for all that fire, she still came forward to where Yara wanted her. Yara’s smirk didn’t diminish in the slightest for all that foolhardy wrath. She had little intention of making a mistake of overconfidence any time soon, but she was never easily intimidated.

“There, that’s not so bad, is it? The bed is comfortable. I’ve made sure of that,” Yara’s soothing tone may have been taken for mockery, though it wasn’t intended as such. Not entirely, anyways. As the hair was moved aside to reveal the wound, Yara did reach back to the tangle of hair and wrapped her fist around it.

There was still the chance that Willow might try to bite her, or headbutt her. Yara didn’t keep the grip tight enough to hurt or to pull unnecessarily, but it would be present. Tense.

“Yara Greyjoy. Captain Yara Greyjoy,” she emphasized that, before she would indeed enter into such close space with the woman. She leaned forward, blotting at the wound and the red streaks to clean up the mess she had done to herself. She remained aware that she wanted to grab her own hairbrush after this. All that hair in such disarray could not be comfortable, and honestly? Yara didn’t want to look at it. If that meant pulling the brush through the lady’s hair herself, so be it.

She was at least going to have a nice plaything to look at. Even if said plaything wasn’t themselves nice. “What were you doing on that boat, love, to end up in such a state?” Warmth would graze over her throat as she spoke, before pulling away now that the mess was cleared and she could see what wound there was a bit more clearly. A bit of salve to cover it, and she suspected that would be good enough. “And where were you going?" Might get a better idea of who to ransom her to, if nothing else. Family, friend, future.

There wasn’t a real need to wrap it up, as she’d feared. It wasn’t that deep. Just a bit frightening.

The salve was cold on Yara’s finger, and it would likely feel even colder across the sensitive flesh of Willow's neck, but on it would go, smeared over the wound to cover it up entirely.

~***~

Margaery Tyrell had no inclination to leave, and so Amaranth knew she’d have to suffer this idea of Southern Hospitality a little longer. To humor a Queen. It was indeed strange, but Amaranth wasn’t unfamiliar with extroverts and their tendencies. These were still strange tendencies, but it was not difficult to imagine this was part of Margaery’s duty, in some way. To keep an eye on the lone Northern lady, make sure no trouble was caused.

“Thank you, your grace,” she said to her invitation for comfort, “I assure you that I am more comfortable now,” not as comfortable as she’d like, but they had to put on airs, didn’t they?

The invitation to join her at the table, at least, was not turned down. Fruits, water, and wine? Amaranth would admit to a sweet tooth, and fruit – fresh fruit – was hard to get in the North. Although she preferred thoughts of moderation, if a Queen told her to indulge, then she had plenty of excuse to do just that without much concern.

The seat was also, overly plush. She nearly sunk into the cushion, expecting something a bit firmer. She straightened up after the slight miscalculation, a puzzled look touching her face before she shook it off.

How strange she must seem to Margaery to be thrown off by a chair.

She took her empty goblet in hand a moment as her silver eyes roamed the fruit. There were ones she did not recognize in the mix, and while her thoughts were certainly curious on that, her finger ran across the inside of the goblet’s rim. It wasn’t slick, or tainted. ‘No poison.’ Her father’s paranoia always carried into his daughter, particularly after Domeric’s fate.

She pressed the goblet briefly to her bottom lip, before setting it back down. She rose, “How does your grace prefer to indulge?” There was a slight pull into a smile at her lips, a bit coy. Despite Margaery's lapse into comfort, she kept to the title, “Water, or wine?” She would pour from whichever pitcher was selected, and drink the same. She did not prefer wines, but water wasn’t always clean, and she’d take her health over a minor embarrassment. One cup shouldn’t rid her of her senses entirely, no matter how lightweight she was.

She’d return to the matter of fruits when that simple task was done – one the Queen need not handle herself.

 

[Blushing]

Those same dirtied fingers snaked their way into her salt-laden hair. She was ensnared before even she knew it, with the woman holding her firmly in place. Yara, she was to be called, moved in slowly after that. Willow wasn’t even able to look away this time.

It was an odd thing, to be so meticulously cared for by Ironborn. Let alone a captain. She wondered just how ‘Yara’ had come to manage such a title. Her knowledge on the Iron Isles was scant, but she’d imagine even a Greyjoy would’ve had a hard time clawing out a place for herself on a ship like this. Or not.

Yara certainly didn’t have any issue digging her claws into her, though. Willow didn’t dare move. While she may have granted her the slightest bit of slack, the salt caught in the knots made any little movement painful. So she didn’t. Holding completely still as the captain toiled away.

It reminded her, although vaguely, of when her mother would spend hours laboring with her hair when she was younger. She would speak to her in a similar fashion in doing so. That same, familiar warmth that had slowly dwindled over the years until one day, it just stopped. Never to be heard again.

Willow merely shrugged in response. A halfhearted gesture, hinting at just how apathetic she may have been to her own ruin. “I suppose it would be my own doing.” She confessed all too casually. “My father promised me to another. Some…man in the south. He was so eager to be rid of me. To shape me into a vessel of his ambitions. So much so that he’d nearly bled the family dry in building that ship to whisk me away – the one you sank.”

She failed at stifling a chuckle at the thought. “I felt like I was losing control of my life, and I had before I knew it. I wasn’t Willow anymore. I was a wife-to-be, my sole birthright according to father. I lost my entire sense of self and I think that broke me.”

Here she was, rambling on about her woes to her captor. “They were on course to King’s Landing, I think. A lot of things were hidden from me. I don’t even know of who I was supposed to marry. Isn’t that strange?”

As if she could emphasize in the slightest. It seemed she’d hardly listened; as it was then that the she’d chosen to apply the salve. It was cold. Cold enough to elicit the slightest, wavering gasp from Willow. Who now narrowed her gaze onto Yara. “Was that necessary? Really?”

=======​

Margaery was enamored. There was really no other word to describe it. Amaranth sat, the slightest hint of confusion present on her features. It was fleeting, but adorable nonetheless. The queen rolled her eyes playfully, letting her gaze come to rest upon her just as she regained her composure. Oh, yes. This one could be fun.

But her attention was on the fruit. She supposed it would be tempting to someone without reliable access to such a luxury. She couldn’t even dream of it, a world without such things at her fingertips.

Amaranth claimed one of the chalices and Margaery tilted her head, curiosity glimmering with her sky-blue eyes. Instead of helping herself, she rose. A smile lingering upon her lips.

‘How does your grace prefer to indulge?’

“Oh, I shouldn’t really answer that.” Margaery teased. “But I’ll take a touch of wine if you’d please.” And Amaranth did just that, filling not only her own cup but taking a spot for herself. Perhaps she was beginning to settle after all. At least she’d have an excuse now should she stumble again.

“Thank you, dear.” Margaery acknowledged as she took her first sip. “You’re a gem.”

Amaranth returned to her chair, again overlooking the fruits laid out before her. Margaery took it upon herself to claim one of the peaches resting on top of the pile. They had always been her favorite. Their soft, sweet flesh rousing memories of times long lost. Summers spent leisurely lounging in the gardens or strolling through the orchards. It was almost a bittersweet thought now.

“Go on.” She’d urged. “I see the way you’re admiring the bowl. Take as much as you’d like! Really, there’s much more from where that came from.”

 

[Lucyfer]

The story was not terribly surprising to Yara. In fact, it was practically what she suspected – a young girl being taken to her future husband. Willow did not seem to desire it much, and Yara wondered at the reason.

Lack of knowledge?

Independent streak?

A dislike of men?

The curiosity nagged at her, and she looked up at Willow, wicked grin almost innocent, “It’s only medicine,” she said, as if that could explain the cold touch that had jolted her, “but if that bothers you, you’re not going to like what comes next.” She released Willow’s hair as she screwed the lid back on the balm, and lifted up the medicine and bandages she didn’t end up needing, taking them over to her desk as she rose to lay them over it. “Though it is a bit strange you didn’t even know who you were going to marry. I suppose that means I can’t just take you to them,” she shrugged, the items clattering onto the desk.

No point going to put them up right then.

“I’m sure your father will pay, from the sounds of it.” He wouldn’t want to lose whatever alliance he was forging. Yara wondered if Willow would try to protest, or speak out against a ransom.

Then again, what choice did she have? ‘Plenty.’ If she realized it. Yara humored tossing in the idea of her ransoming herself, but she’d save that, for the moment. See what it was that bothered Willow so much about her marriage. What broke her.

She walked across from her desk to a vanity and pulled a comb off the top, “Your hair is a wreck, and I don’t want to look at it anymore, so either you’re fixing it, or I am,” she waved the comb almost as if it were a knife, before sauntering back over, “Then maybe we can consider getting you cleaned up more,” but washing her hair when it was so knotted would not be good.

“So, is it going to be me, or do you want to comb your hair?” She said, pausing in front of Willow, one hand on her hip, the other offering the comb to her.

~***~

The wine was poured, just a touch – for herself, and for Margaery. The Queen’s teasing was hardly lost to Amaranth, and she was morbidly curious how Margaery did indulge if she wanted it to seem scandalous. It was likely innocent, but then again, the best facades were behind unsuspecting features. Ramsay had such a baby face that no one ever really suspected him of atrocities.

But her gaze did move back to the vibrant bounty before her. She couldn’t deny her own lust for the sweets, and Margaery plucked one that Amaranth couldn’t name at all, the hue nearly flesh colored. Well – more akin to Margaery’s flesh, though not exactly.

Amaranth still found some hesitation as she sipped her wine, and Margaery encouraged.

There was no way to make sure any of them weren’t poisoned. It was also, devastatingly rude to refuse, and her gaze was not subtle. What were the odds, though? Certainly, Margaery wouldn’t want to be so near if they were poisoned, wouldn’t want to be sole witness.

“I don’t know most of these,” she finally relented, finally reached out and grabbed a similar-looking fruit to the one Margaery had, “What is this?” She asked her, though she knew a name would tell her next to nothing. She didn’t know if she was supposed to peel it before eating it, or if she could just eat it. It was a soft fruit, unlike an apple, and she suspected the juice might make a bit of a mess if she wasn’t careful in eating it.

Peaches couldn’t survive the cold long enough to be transported North fresh, in any sense of the word.

 

[Blushing]

Willow imagined she wouldn’t like much of what would inevitably come next. She’d figured it would all come to ransom. It was in the nature of the ruthless to prey on the weakness of the others. If her betrothed wanted to save his wife, the future bearer of his children, he’d be expected to pay. But thankfully she didn’t know who her betrothed was, not even a family name. Her ignorance may have saved her in that case, but her father was a different beast entirely.

He’d changed. Even she wasn’t sure if he’d pay given the damage already done. Willow knew he was likely trying for a son in her absence anyway. A ‘viable’ heir. What if, in the short amount of time she’d spent away, it was discovered mother had finally fallen pregnant? Would they bother in salvaging an already broken promise? The thought made her insufferably nervous. She didn’t want to ponder on it too long. Willow already knew the answer.

But she didn’t. Yara’s mannerisms had proved strange. She killed her men and burned her ship, and now here she was playing mother. It didn’t mean she’d divulge this information, though. There was no telling what she’d do if she thought that there was even a chance her father would refuse.

Thankfully, she didn’t seem keen on pressing the matter. Instead choosing to focus on something surprisingly trivial. Her hair? Willow scoffed at her threat. Perhaps it’d be easier to just cut it, but she really didn’t want to. She had loved her hair once upon a time.

Willow took the comb. “I can manage.” If it had to be done, she didn’t want the Greyjoy tearing through at it. She likely wouldn’t have any left.

Bit by bit, Willow sectioned off bits of knotted ebony thread. “Do you intend to bathe me too?” She bitterly mused aloud as she raked the comb through. “Maybe I’d consider it if promise to join me.”

=======​

Margaery wasn’t surprised at her apprehension. Some fruits were frail, all to easily withered away by the slightest touch of frost. It was a reasonable thought that Amaranth could’ve spent the majority of her life within the confines of the Dreadfort. She’d wager there were be many southern comforts unknown to her, comforts Margaery was eager to acquaint her with.

“It’s a peach, love.” The Queen warmly replied. “Plucked from Highgarden’s own orchards.” Renly’s men never went hungry. It came with the territory, quite literally, of having married into influence over the most fertile lands in Westeros.

Margaery wondered if Amaranth had ever seen an orchard in her lifetime. If not peaches, then apples? Fireplums? She’d heard rumors of northerners using ‘glass houses’ in a desperate bid to keep some greenery alive, but that was all she knew of them. As of how they functioned or exactly what was able to be grown within was a mystery.

“I know they’re a little odd, but they’re really quite irresistible.” Without thinking, she’d take generous a bite. Skin and all. After spending all morning held captive at the tourney, it felt a godsend. Margaery could’ve easily devoured the whole thing but she restrained herself. It probably wouldn’t have looked good to have her ravage it. She’d already subverted enough queenly expectations; she needn’t paint herself a glutton just yet.

“At least, I think so.”

Margaery took yet another sip of her wine. “Speaking of, I think you’d absolutely adore Highgarden.” It was everything the Dreadfort wasn’t. Warm and bountiful, with as much vibrant greenery within its ivied walls as the lands beyond them. “Once the war is won, I’d hope you’d consider a visit. I’d like to think it’s worth melting for.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Yara allowed the comb to leave her hands, and she went back to sitting on the bed. Well, lounging might have been more appropriate. She kicked off her boots and threw her feet on it, behind where Willow tended to her hair, sectioning it out, working through it. There was always something strangely intimate about women and hair, so even though it was a wreck now, Yara would enjoy the scene.

See what Willow could become, once she was cleaned up.

She might have continued conversation, but Willow was the one more interested in how things proceeded from here. ‘Probably does not like men.’ Yara concluded, even if Willow had meant her comment flippantly. To her, it seemed too easily said. Or perhaps those were just her own hopes.

“Well love, if that’s what it takes to get you cleaned up, I’ll happily join you!” She agreed, wry smirk touching her lips, “I will say I’m curious what’s under all those layers,” she didn’t bother to hide her roving gaze then, moving down from Willow’s face, and over her currently covered form, before raking back up, “but you’ll have to agree to help wash my back. There’s always some places that are just so difficult to get to.”

And now she fully intended on it. Even if it would be wholly chaste – she wasn’t going to force Willow, though, she’d certainly enjoy teasing her mercilessly if she could.

Besides, it was a practical idea. Sharing water for one bath was always a boon, even if Yara didn’t care to share that thought to lessen any anxieties that might build in Willow, now that she’d condemned herself to sharing such a thing with the Captain.

She straightened back up and pulled her feet off the bed. “I think I’ll go have the tub brought up and get the water warmed!”

~***~

Peach, Margaery said, and Amaranth’s eyes glittered at the word. She knew of them – they were in a song she knew, and so she associated them with Dorne, rather than the Reach. The woman in question in the song supposedly had a voice as sweet as a peach, so Amaranth took it to mean the fruit was something wondrous. She hadn’t expected its bland appearance, or the flesh of it, but nonetheless, she intended to try it.

Margaery gave away how, biting right into it without peeling it. Amaranth allowed a small chuckle to escape her at the queen’s enthusiasm, before she bit into it as well.

As expected, it spilled juice once bitten. Amaranth didn’t make a mess of herself, thankfully, but she made a note to take smaller bites to avoid that potential embarrassment, even if that seemed a tall task.

She did lick off what juice did spill onto her lips and threatened to run down, “These are good,” she agreed, “I had always wondered, though I associated them with Dorne, not the Reach,” she said, taking another, smaller bite, as Margaery again preached the good of the Reach.

“One would almost think you are trying to poach me, the way you speak of the Reach, Your Grace,” though it was said in a flat tone, her eyes betrayed some humor with Margaery’s insistence, “Tell me, Lady Margaery, have you ever seen snow, or considered the beauty that the North may hold?”

Perhaps she was right, and a visit to Highgarden would be worth it. That couldn’t be denied without seeing it, of course – but she did wonder how much bias Margaery had for her own home, and the greenery that thrived there. Would she be able to see beauty in the hardy things that called the North home?

 

[Blushing]

Next had come the braids. Each strand was carefully unraveled and preened, leaving loosened waves of raven-down in their wake. She could feel Yara’s eyes on her as she toiled away. Men used to gawk at her in a similar manner. Even deteriorated into the absolute mess she was now; Willow was apparently something to admired.

And admire she did. Willow turned just in time to meet her wandering eye. She made a point of it. Her gaze tracing over Willow’s form as if she were already beginning to relish what was beneath her ‘layers’.

There was something about it that caused her throat to clench. She could feel the heat involuntarily beginning to seep across her freckled cheeks. Had she damned herself with that little quip?

“I’m flattered by your enthusiasm.” She purred rather flatly as Yara brought herself to sit alongside her. “Really, I am. But I don’t actually intend on wallowing in a tub with you.”

Willow didn’t dare let her mind wander into the ‘what ifs’. She was determined to remain adamant despite the visible cracks in her resolve. It was almost pathetic just how easily she was tempted by something intimate. Or was it merely the allure of choice?

“You may as well not bother with the effort.” Willow insisted, not even sparing her a glance as she returned to her preening. “It’s not as if a father would pay any less for his bruised, unwashed daughter.”

=======​

Margaery watched, wholly ensnared, as Amaranth ate her first peach. She seemed to enjoy it despite how messy it’d turned out to be.

“Aren’t they? I’ve heard the songs too, but I can’t help but be a bit biased.” It was difficult not to be when all she’d ever partaken of Dornish culture was their wine. Nearly every other pleasure in her life was sourced locally. From food to clothing, and even the company she so often associated with.

Of course, Amaranth was different. She herself served as a glimpse into a new world. It was all too easy to ramble on about her own life and experiences, and so her offhanded comment hardly surprised her.

“I very well may be, my lady.” Margaery thoughtlessly teased, a playful wink punctuating her little quip. Northern lands hardly interested her, and news from said regions were more often than not the same. “

Cold, barren, and miserable; with very little else to offer.

But she feigned interest nonetheless. “I’ve seen snow a handful of times. Winter tends to be a lot more forgiving within the Reach, but things withered and froze all the same.”

Margaery smiled, but she’d no doubt caught her little jab to her title. Perhaps her love was tolerant of such things, but she generally wasn’t. She swallowed her pride for now. There was always the chance that it’d been a simple mistake, but she wouldn’t let it go a second time.

“I was always so miserable when winter came around. I couldn’t imagine living like that all the time!”

Margaery caught herself. “But… I suppose a brief visit couldn’t hurt.”

Not to the Dreadfort, of course. There would be other arrangements if such a thing ever happened. “Perhaps for your wedding if you manage to find a proper suitor. And then, you could show me yourself.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Yara smirked down at Willow as she suggested it was entirely unnecessary. She wouldn’t be sharing the tub, “Pity,” Yara said, but didn’t express who should be more disappointed in it. She did not allow it to dismantle her spirits, at any rate, “But you’re wrong to think I’m cleaning you up for your father. I couldn’t care less about that.”

She knew what Willow had to say was true. A father would pay for a bruised and dirty daughter, as much as for a pristine one. Perhaps not so much if she was considered no longer honorable, but that wasn’t a terrible concern right then.

“You’ll be washed in ropes or of your own accord, with or without me,” Yara allowed a cheeky grin, “because I want it done, and because I’m not going to have you sulking around looking pitiful. It's bad for morale.” Perhaps it wouldn’t have been terribly bad if Willow were a prisoner of another sort, and they wanted to see her broken, but she wasn’t.

She was more treasure than prisoner, and it was better all around if she looked like it. The men might get more ideas, but they’d be less likely to act on them if her status on the ship was obvious to them. “But if you want a delay to it, I’m willing to allow a night for you to adjust a bit to your circumstances before we toss you in a tub.”

And so she waited, without returning to her seat, for Willow to weigh in.

~***~

Margaery remained amiable, but Amaranth caught the strain in her smile. After that wink, she had caught onto the play of titles, using ‘Lady Margaery’ so close after using ‘Your Grace’ had been wholly intentional. The Queen, it seemed, had no desire to be reduced to ‘Lady’ again. Still, she made no comment to it, but spoke to the query. She had seen snow in her life, and had not liked it in the least.

Withered and froze.

Miserable. ‘Oh you sweet summer child.’ Caught up in her airs and her luxury. She wouldn’t survive in the North, at all.

Amaranth allowed a low laugh at her consideration of a visit, and shook her head, “Oh, do not worry yourself over it, Your Grace,” she dismissed, “there’s no cause to come to a wedding all the way in the North. I am sure I will have more reason to venture to King’s Landing than all that. I would hate to see you miserable and suffering in the North. No event is worth that, if you already suffer so greatly in the winters of the Reach.”

Presuming, of course, Margaery made it so far as King’s Landing – but this was no time to speak as if it was a hypothetical. To speak as if Stannis could win and crush them, or that the Lannisters may.

Presuming they did not end up at war with Renly because of Robb’s fool decision to separate the North from the rest of the kingdoms. Well, no matter. They would win, if they did. All these flowers and summer children would wilt and die when they had to venture North to try and bring them to heel.

 

[Blushing]

“I am to be bathed because you will it?” Like a prized sow, she’d imagine. Washed and brushed to appease the discriminate gaze of the wolves. Or, rather, the krakens?

And morale between the krakens was high. They’d spilled blood, sunk a ship, and managed to snag both riches and a hostage in doing so. There hadn’t been a single scowl amongst them as she was paraded past; not one of them seemed to mind the mess. But it would appear that their captain harbored more refined tastes.

“It must be dreadful.” Willow sighed, falling back onto the furs. “To have gotten so lucky as to nick a noble’s daughter to only have her so horribly repulsive it demoralizes even Ironborn.” She closed her eyes, drawing in a breath. “A pity.”

A moment later her tired eyes would, almost reluctantly, flutter open. “Fine. Tomorrow then.”

Willow was exhausted. It’d been a long, harrowing journey of being held hostage. “But for now I just want to lay down and forget where I am.”

=======​

There was the slightest twinge of relief upon her reassurance. Margaery had no real desire to venture anywhere within the northern lands. She couldn’t argue against Amaranth. Frail, meek, and sheltered; she too would wither and freeze just as a rose would.

“Oh, you’re probably right. I suppose it would be a lot of hassle…and I’d only really ever be a burden. Perhaps the it’s the wine inspiring these silly ideas.” She’d only consumed half of her cup, but it made for a convenient excuse.

“And of course, there’s still the matter of the war, isn’t it? I suppose I’m getting all too ahead of myself.” It was all too easily forgotten, it’d seem. A blight readily put out of her mind in lieu of something as simple as potentially pleasant conversation.

King’s Landing. Before there could be weddings or visits, there’d have to be blood; and how badly Margaery wanted that crown. “Forgive me, it’s been a while since I’ve conversed with someone who wasn’t an absolute bore or didn’t want anything of me.”

Margaery laid the peach down onto the table, careful to keep the exposed flesh off of the wood. “I wonder if this alliance could be what finally motivates Renly to march on the Lannisters. Can’t exactly host you in King’s Landing if we don’t take it.”

 

[Lucyfer]

At least one thing seemed to remain true of noble’s daughters – they were ever dramatic when presented with problems. It was rather amusing to watch her complain and flop back on the bed, as if she’d just endured such a harrying trial as being told she must bathe, of all things. The horror of it all.

Did she not want to feel clean? To wash the entire experience from her body? Given the way she had looked on the ship, perhaps not. Perhaps she wanted to make her soon-to-be-husband regret agreeing to such a thing.

And now she wanted her father to see her in such an atrocious state and reconsider his actions towards her? Yara could only guess, for now.

She wouldn’t ask such a thing when there were far more fun implications to play with as the woman laid sprawled upon her own bed. Yara retreated back to it, and took a seat on the end, “I’m sure. It’s been such a tiring for you. I can only imagine the hardships you faced on board that boat before me and my men showed up,” she teased.

Of course, the emotional strain could be tiring. Yara wouldn’t really know, but she couldn’t resist poking a bit of fun at her, “But I’m afraid if you want to forget entirely where you are, you may want to find new bedding, love,” Yara would reach a hand out to touch the woman’s leg, where her skirt revealed flesh above any stockings or shoes, “Unless you do not mind a companion as you sleep, of course, but I’m not so generous to give up my bed entirely.”

But she’d let her sleep there. Given the way Willow offered, and then floundered when offers were accepted, Yara couldn’t help but poke fun at her now.

~***~

Amaranth had barely drunk much of her own wine, but she allowed Margaery the excuse with a nod of her own head, as she finished off the peach. At least Margaery hadn’t attempted to protest or backtrack; she embraced her weakness, a rare enough quality in women, and ever more rare in men. Amaranth certainly didn’t enjoy having to own up to the fact the heat made her sick.

At least under cover, with fruit and drink, she was doing better.

“I can imagine. Future Queens will always have sycophants following at their heels,” Amaranth could empathize with that much. She had suitors who simply wanted her because that would make them Lord of the Dreadfort. She wasn’t interested in such men who sought only the title. “It is not a bad quality to look ahead, Your Grace. To see good times beyond war is a skill that should be nurtured. There will be many you will come to rule over, who will not be able to see it. You will have to remind them that life continues after war.”

That things would improve. That there could hope, bounty, and life. That those who were their enemies were their friends again. She had quite the task ahead of her.

She did not quite hide the smirk as Margaery wondered about the alliance. ‘Lady Stark would prefer Stannis.’ That was not spoken. It did not need to be spoken, just as she did not need to ask if Margaery grew tired of these games. That was apparent by her statement. “With any luck, you and His Grace will reach it before Lord Tywin turns his attention back. It will be easier to hold him off once you are behind those walls.”

Easier, but not guaranteed. “That should be persuasion enough.” But, obviously, it wasn’t. Not to Stannis, or to Renly, who wanted to feud here and now, rather than lay claim to a kingdom not well protected.

At least one thing could be said about Robb – he was marching South, and he was going to attack King’s Landing.

 

[Blushing]

Yara, again, decided to return to her place beside Willow. Tensions between them weren’t running as high as they were, but there was still a very tangible sense of discomfort in the air. It almost made it hard to breathe, nearly staying her breath with every shaky inhale. Willow wondered if Yara could sense it? Or if it was something lost with experience? Unlike Yara, this wasn’t a role she was very familiar with.

Though, it was looking as if it was a role neither wanted to playing. Yara, the child minder. Willow, the hopelessly dramatic captive. The act was growing tiresome for both of them, of that she was certain; and Willow just wanted it to be done with.

“Oh, you possibly couldn’t.” Willow halfheartedly humored, making the barest effort in the conversation. “It was far worse than even you could ever manage to imagine.”

She’d never really been a good conversationalist to begin with. It was one of her more ‘unfortunate qualities’ her father had decided. Unbecoming of a budding noble’s daughter. Willow wondered if Yara’s father saw her galivanting as an ‘unfortunate quality’. Was pillaging unbecoming of Ironborn women?

Willow must’ve let her mind wander a bit too long. As it wasn’t by her own accord she was plucked from her thoughts, it was a familiar sensation that roused her. The same rough, calloused hand that’d nearly broken her wrist upon their meeting. Except this time it’d come to rest gently upon her leg.

Her own hand snatched it before anything else, not daring to offer the chance to wander. Willow’s mother warned her of the men who would do this. She often likened them to beasts, unable to control themselves in the presence of their betters. But she’d never spoke of women in that way.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Willow hissed in a mockingly sultry tone as she slowly rose to sit alongside her again. “Are you really that deprived? Touching someone so apparently dirty you couldn't bring yourself to even gaze upon them?”

Then again, what else did she expect? She lay sprawled in a pillager’s bed, completely at the mercy of her whim. If this woman could bring herself to murder without qualm, then surely she was capable of worse.

“I must not be that unbearable then.” She’d added with a scoff, her lip daring to tease at a grin. “If you’d be open to the idea of sharing a bed.”

But really, she was Ironborn. Sharing space with unrefined, disgusting creatures was something she likely did regularly. Oh, Willow didn’t even want to imagine that.

“But, I don’t exactly want to be confined to the floor.” Where else would she sleep? Outside with those animals? A hand on the leg was tame to what they’d do, surely. “Or anywhere near them. So, a companion wouldn’t be the end of the world, I suppose.”

Willow’s grip on Yara’s hand loosened, but she didn’t let go entirely. “What a story this’ll be.” She mused, meek laughter in her voice. “The time I slept with, and will ultimately be bathed by, an Ironborn captain. How…scandalous.”

=======​

“Is it?” Margaery mused aloud. Life after the war was all she could really think of now. After the storm, comes the sun…right? But she’d caught that little smirk, and for a second her own smile would falter.

“Yes.” She replied in an almost hesitant fashion, her composure gradually retuning as she took yet another sip of her wine. “With any luck.” Oh, how she'd suddenly bristled.

But it would take more than luck to reach that happily ever after; and they both seemed to know it. By no means were the Lannisters their only barrier between them and their rule, but Margaery was suddenly curious, however, if they’d considered Stannis. She rarely even thought of that old, greying stag holed up in Dragonstone, but it had been a great burden upon Renly.

There was many loveless nights spent reassuring him. That only not only was he meant to be king, but if it came to it he’d be more than able to secure his claim against his brother. Would Stannis even have them as Renly had? Their “King in the North” declaration surely wouldn’t go over well with him. If he’d so fiercely defend his title against his own flesh, why would he ever consider terms set by another self-proclaimed king?

Then again, why would Renly?

Margaery downed the little of her drink that remained. “We can only ever hope, I suppose.” Of course, even as queen, she held no power over Renly’s forces. She could plant the seeds of her desires all she liked, but it was his word alone that held weight among them. A million whispers could never amount to the worth of action.

How she’d hoped Amaranth was right. The mother wolf wouldn’t coddle him like she had. They wouldn’t bother with the awkward pleasantries she and Amaranth shared, there’d be talk of Stannis between them. Of real warfare. If not King’s Landing then maybe she could urge him to seek action against his brother. Whether it be mere discourse or quick declaration of war. Margaery was suddenly feeling a twinge anxious – and she was fairly certain it hadn’t come from the wine.

“I don’t think I’ll take another.” Margaery suddenly piped up again. “I’m already flustered as it is, and I’m sure Lady Catelyn and my beloved will seek us out soon enough. It wouldn’t be very becoming of me to overindulge before dinner. Wouldn’t want them to think we’ve had too much fun without them, yeah?”

 

[Lucyfer]

Yara did not dart her hand away, but allowed Willow to snatch it up and pull it off her leg. Willow sat up, still holding that hand as if any release of it would let it return to the flesh that it had been upon. She arched a brow at Willow’s own line of questioning. Clearly, she’d forgotten, or hadn’t noticed, that Yara had looked her over more than once already.

Sure, she was a bit grimy, but that wasn’t all that terrible. If it was, Yara would have already been kicking her out of the bed and away from her pleasantly soft furs. “I’ve never said you were unbearable, love. A diamond’s still a diamond, even when it’s covered in shit.” People still desired a diamond and would reach into the shit for it.

Yara knew Willow would be prettier without all the salt in her hair, but she was still pretty. Her form wasn’t undone by a bit of dirt; in the right places, it’d even enhance her beauty, like on her knees, to some minds. Yara’s mind. “Everyone just prefers the diamond not to be covered in shit.”

And who could blame them?

“It’s to your fortune I’m not any of my uncles,” Yara teased as she laid back, even as Willow remained sitting, keeping her hand held aloft in that loose grasp. Perhaps she could have broken it, but this was more fun. “That might truly be considered scandalous. From what I hear, it isn’t so…unusual for women to lay with women. A way to protect their virtue or some such, as if women can be trusted not to have a bit of fun with each other.” She winked, “Or more fun with each other, given we know what works far better than any man. But I’ll be wholly chaste and protect your virtue. I’m sure that’s what your father values most of all. He may even thank me for confining you to my quarters.”

He wouldn’t have thanked Victarion or Euron for such a thing, but then, he might not have even gotten his daughter back if it was either of them. Or he’d get her without a tongue, if it were Euron.

~***~

Though Amaranth felt some small pride at getting under Margaery’s skin and turning her attention to the war, there was also a touch of guilt there that was unusual for her. She had not truly desired to sour Margaery’s mood. At least, not so much. The flower seemed far frailer than she’d given her credit for. Her smiles were so much less now, and Amaranth found to her own bitter irritation she missed the warmth already.

Oh well.

She knew how to handle cold better, anyways.

‘You can do so much more than hope.’ Amaranth covered that thought with a drink of wine. How ridiculous Margaery would look holding a bow, and leading troops. It was not the way for Southern women.

At least it was not so abnormal in the North, even if her father had desired such weakness for her. The Mormonts and some other families had set a nice precedence. “Of course, Your Grace,” she tilted her own cup, nearly empty, and drank the rest of it easily, “No more wine then. I apologize for souring the mood, it was not my intent, and I am sincere in saying that your ability to think towards the future is a boon,” she added, “My own mind does not go so far ahead; I can think only of the war and concerns back home.”

Ramsay.

The little bastard who threatened her claim to everything, who was in the Dreadfort, who needed a bolt through his heart. How often she’d considered sending someone to kill him while she was away, and yet, how much she desired to be the one to do it herself. “You have more power than you realize. Perhaps it is not the power that His Grace has, but there is power in the wealth of the Reach, and in your own beauty and demeanor. A power that Her Grace, Cersei Lannister, lacks, and that His Grace, Joffrey, also lacks. Even should His Grace Renly falter, you are capable of inspiring.”

Perhaps she couldn’t be seen with a bow and arrow, but there were many ways to wield power, and many forms of it. Amaranth knew which ones she could not lay claim to, but she recognized them.

She saw them in the young queen, who needed a boost to remember it was not all dependent on Renly.

 

[Blushing]

“A rather unsavory comparison.” Willow mumbled almost absentmindedly. It was unsavory, but accurate. Though the young kelpie would hardly consider herself a ‘diamond’ at all.

Yara laid back, their hands still entwined in that awkwardly loose embrace. She felt like an adolescent again, awkwardly fumbling through courtship for the very first time. And yet she didn’t let go. Merely sitting there as she begun carry on about what was truly considered scandalous.

To her merit, she was correct. Her uncles would’ve undoubtedly been worse. She didn’t have to know them to know that, but she’d never heard of women lying with women to preserve their virtue. It seemed like something idly said to ease a worried or hesitant mind. A sweet, lulling lie.

“Well, I haven’t heard of such a thing.” Willow admitted in a somewhat accusatory tone. “We certainly don’t entertain that practice where I’m from.” The Iron Isles had a vastly different culture than the mainland. She knew only tidbits from stories she’d heard as a child, but she wouldn’t put it past them to venture into something so harmlessly taboo.

But even though she’d promised her chastity, why did Willow still feel flustered? The majority of their interactions had been made up of flirting and plenty of spoken and unspoken promises. Was she that starved for attention?

“Considering the circumstances, maybe.” Again, she had to remind herself it could always be worse. But her father wasn’t always the most understanding soul. He wouldn’t be happy when the day ultimately came, and how she resented the thought.

Willow let her grip on Yara’s hand loosen, then unravel completely. Letting it fall next to her on the bed with a shallow huff. It was a matter of pride now. How long would Willow able to resist her coarse charm? She was effectively trapped here, and that thought alone was beginning to wear at her already thinned resolve.

She needed a reprieve from the victimhood. Something to take her mind off of the hell her father would raise for ruining a perfectly good match, and of course she’d never hear the end of how she’d undoubtedly smeared their name beyond redemption. If Yara managed even a glimpse, it would be obvious as to who overdramatic nature was inherited from.

“Then, I suppose there’s really not much else to do unless I wanted to submit myself to a bath earlier than intended.” There was always sleep, but she couldn’t hardly hope to sleep the whole way to the Stony Shore. Yara wouldn’t let her.

The promise was a hollow comfort, and maybe her little metaphor had spurred something innate within her. Something longing for a long, rejuvenating soak in what would hopefully be clean waters.

“Alright.” She sighed, knowingly about to seal her fate. “Fetch the tub then.” She’d said with a gesture. “I’ll want it warmed before I’ll even consider removing a single garment.”

=======​

There was a touch of regret lingering in her voice. It was intentional, she was certain of it.

“Oh, don’t be.” Margaery insisted in glancing over her own chalice. “It’s been a taxing march; I shouldn’t burden you with my trivial woes.”

It wasn’t exactly in her best interest as queen to spill her guts to a foreign emissary. Her composure was slipping, but she was determined to gather it while she still could. Amaranth, however, proved more tolerant than she thought. Choosing not to capitalize on her sudden bout of uncertainty, but offer reassurance.

“Oh, I can only imagine. But the north is strong.” She’d returned the favor, assuming her concerns were only of the war. Unlike Amaranth, their war was a written one. Robb was leading his men south with staggering results, but there was always room for doubt.

The King in the North was all that stood between the Lannisters and his people. They were looking not only to quash Robb, but to exterminate his family and everyone else who stood with him. If he fails, her entirely livelihood could be at stake. Something she admittedly couldn’t relate to.

Even if Renly fell, both Margaery and her sibling would still be desirable. With the rumors whispered about his peculiarity, it would be easy to convince people of an unconsummated marriage. It wouldn’t exactly be a lie, anyway.

“Thank you.” Margaery did appreciate the effort. “You are far too kind to me, Lady Bolton.” Perhaps Amaranth wasn’t quite the stoic face of the north she’d originally thought her to be. There was a fine line between the flattery of sycophants and mere reassurance, but this seemed a different beast entirely. Amaranth’s words inspired warmth. Enough to seemingly lift the tension that’d settled over her in an instant. Poised, beautiful, with a touch of genuine kindness? What a wife she’d make indeed.

“But as much as I appreciate that, I don’t like to dwell on such…unpleasantries.” Margaery had to maintain her own image of the doting wife, after all. The idea of her husband, their king, faltering should’ve been unthinkable to her. He was her best bet at becoming the queen, after all. Rather than remaining merely ‘a queen’.

“Inspiration can only get one so far. Unlike you, I couldn’t just mount a horse and ride into battle should things go awry.” Margaery chuckled softly. “I kid, of course. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be keen to witnessing such a thing. Watching men fight is so…boring, and Brienne is far too uptight to be fun.”

Her attention naturally fell to the stash of glinting weaponry. “You know, I’ve been curious since we arrived… are you proficient with them all? Watching my men squirm as they had almost tempts me to ask you for a demonstration sometime.”