Margaery?

  Tending to her garden, she hummed a half-remembered tune under her breath. There were seven rose bushes altogether now, each bearing roses in every shade of yellow.

  She knew they were all pale imitations of the rose she was given despite being its children, but she still found them beautiful, especially as they were now, their petals almost shimmering under the sunlight.

  Her cousins had found it strange at first, thinking it the work of the smallfolk, but it was rewarding in a way few things were, something they had come to see. A few of them were even determined to plant gardens of their own now, bringing in seedlings from all across the Reach.

  She had taken a sip of her iced summerwine when she heard footsteps, Loras soon being let through by Ser Morwyn. She had not seen him as oft as she would have liked these days on account of him being busy with putting the gold cloaks to rights.

  Margaery missed her older brothers also, though they wrote to her often enough that she couldn't complain.

  Her brother's warm brown eyes turned to the roses for a moment before they were back on her. "I know I am late," he told her haplessly. "Forgive me?"

  She kept her stare of mock anger on him a moment longer before she giggled. "Fine. You're forgiven."

  Noticing the sweat on his brow, she offered him her cup, which he accepted gratefully before drinking it dry. She idly refilled it with the flagon nearby as he began to speak, some small pieces of ice still keeping it cool.

  "With only a handful of officers left, keeping the peace has become an impossible task," he complained. "The sudden loss of coin after that whoremonger fled hasn't helped, stemming the flow of trade this bedamned city relies on. Then there is the threat of war as well…"

  Margaery nodded along thoughtfully. The whole of the Red Keep must have heard the king shouting that he would hunt that 'conniving rat buggerer' to the far corners of Essos alone if he had to.

  "Father has sent more men, hasn't he?" she asked. "Willas mentioned something of it."

  "It will take them at least a fortnight to arrive. The same for Renly's men from the stormlands." He sighed as they sat on the bench. "At least there has been some good news. Some more of Stark's grim northmen have arrived during the night, and he has quickly put them to work."

  Loras had paused, looking at her hands. He took them gently into his own gauntleted ones, his eyes soon turning on her in worry.

  "Father would not refuse you some of our gardeners, sister."

  She smiled at him. "There is no need. I enjoy it, and pricking my finger now and then won't kill me." Margaery did not mention that none of the rose bushes were at fault for any of it, for she had been careful not to spill her blood needlessly. "Aren't they beautiful, Loras?" she asked him.

  They admired them for some moments until her brother spoke again, "I can only hope there aren't any riots in the meantime. More whisper each day that the queen has poisoned the king's mind, bidding him to start a war with the pious Vale as she trafficks with sorcerers. Some have even taken to casting blame upon the Hand, a tree-worshipping northerner turning a blind eye to the troubles of the faithful."

  Margaery hid a snort. She had come to know how Cersei Lannister's mind worked, and unless someone had planted the idea in her head first or she felt threatened, it was unlikely that she would want to stomach her royal husband's company to do so. The depths of her loathing were that great.

  "I am hopeful it will work out," she mentioned. "The Vale could not hope to stand against the Seven Kingdoms no more than the ironborn could. They will not risk such a war for one mad fish."

  He nodded, and they talked and shared the rest of the iced wine until later in the afternoon. She had been invited by Cersei to take supper at her apartments tonight, and her brother had his duties now.

  Though on her way there her eyes caught Lord Varys and Tyrion Lannister speaking to one another. They made for a curious pair, she thought, a eunuch and a dwarf.

  She continued after a moment, Ser Morwyn at her back.

  Ser Boros of the Kingsguard was there to greet them, though he was more a Queensguard by her estimation, being the queen's creature through and through.

  She saw a small feast laid out once she had entered, though it wasn't only Cersei there but her daughter as well.

  "Lady Margaery," the queen greeted. "You are very punctual."

  Margaery gave a perfect curtsy. "Thank you, Your Grace." Her eyes flickered between them as she sat.

  Myrcella was her mother writ small, golden curls tumbling to her shoulders. Though unlike her mother, her gap-toothed smile was genuine. The lion queen meanwhile sat imperiously in a gown of rich crimson velvet, one leg crossed over the other. Her belly also swelled noticeably now.

  It seemed too much pomp for a private supper, but then that was how she was.

  "Myrcella wanted to ask after your garden," she heard Cersei say as she gave her daughter a more tender look.

  The young princess seemed to have trouble finding her tongue, but after a moment she managed. "I took a peek when you weren't there, my lady…" The admission was soft and as genuine as her previous smile. "I also have a garden, though it is small. I was wondering… wondering if I could plant those roses there."

  Margaery gave her a guileless smile, even as she noticed the hint of something sour in Cersei's eyes at the thought of her daughter playing in the dirt. "But of course, princess. In fact, it would gladden me to do so. Come by tomorrow in the morning and I shall give you seven seedlings, one for each of the Seven."

  Her face brightened like the sun, though she looked to her mother before answering. After a small nod, she turned back and nodded eagerly, almost bouncing in her chair. "That would be perfect!"

  The princess returned to poking at her peach pie, still full of nervous energy when Cersei spoke again.

  "This recent trouble with the former master of coin has been distasteful. But then I had always told the former Hand that a man of such low birth should not be given such a position. He ignored me to his own peril."

  "Yes, Your Grace," she sweetly replied. "I have also found your words wise and true, like a sweet balm on a hot summer day." She took a bite of the pie herself, chewing slowly.

  It was acceptable, though not near as good as the pies made from fresh peaches back home. The Red Keep's bakers could learn a thing or two from Highgarden.

  "Worse, that unpleasant little man sought fit to try and pin the blame on me, even spreading vicious rumors. And now the smallfolk have taken it to heart, baying like fools."

  Margaery gave a sympathetic nod. "The smallfolk are fickle my lord father has always said. They will find some other fancy soon, Your Grace."

  Cersei gave a sniff, twisting and turning the golden band on her finger. "I find it irksome still. He has not been in King's Landing for several moons now and still they would blame him for all their petty problems. I should have the next fool to complain about his cow's milk being spoiled by sorcery flogged to put some good sense back into them."

  There was a poignant pause as she tried mightily not to show her curiosity. Margaery had tried to tease the truth from her several times now, but he had been one of the few things she hesitated to even mention.

  "Myrcella, I think it's time you retired to your rooms. The hour is late."

  The princess's bright green eyes turned between them, and after a smile and a whispered farewell she left the room, leaving only the queen and her.

  "You had seen him at Highgarden, had you not?" Cersei soon asked, her similarly green cats' eyes fixated on her. "You must have."

  "I have, Your Grace." She watched the queen stand and come around behind her, nails tickling her neck.

  "And you spoke to him?" she heard. "What was he like?"

  "He was nothing but courteous. Kind, also. He defended Lady Brienne's honor as you must have heard by now."

  "I have." Cersei's nails still danced across her skin. "The gods are cruel sometimes, are they not? They had blessed her with strength of arms and cursed her in the same breath."

  Margaery was surprised her words weren't crueler, but then she seemed distracted. She kept a pleasant smile on her lips still, even as the queen's sharp nails trailed up her neck to her jaw.

  "Not like you, Lady Margaery. You are a beauty, yes?"

  "Your Grace?"

  "Anyone with eyes can see it," the lion queen whispered to her. "Any except for Renly Baratheon, I should say."

  "He has complimented me on my beauty many times…"

  Margaery felt her chin raised to meet the eyes of someone playing with her food. It amused her more than she thought it would.

  "You cannot be so blind my lady to not see that Renly prefers the company of your brother."

  She could have sighed at how bluntly it was said, lacking any sense of artistry. Instead she put on sad eyes. "I have noticed, Your Grace. But he is my lord husband by the grace of the Seven."

  "As Robert Baratheon is mine. Should we content ourselves with stags who pay not a passing thought to us until the end of our days? Until we are old and grey?"

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "What do you mean, Your Grace?"

  Margaery felt soft lips touch hers, golden curls tickling her cheek as the scent of Arbor gold tickled her nose. She was not surprised after the queen's stares. There was a jealousy there that had never gone, but now there was something possessive as well.

  There was also a taste of peach, to be sure.

  She tried for a dopey smile as Cersei retreated, everything about her radiating satisfaction.

  "Y-Your Grace, are you certain we should be—"

  "Did you not like it? I hope I did not frighten you."

  Margaery made a show of glancing away shyly. "It isn't that. It's only that I…" She had already trailed off when Cersei quieted her by pressing a finger to her lips.

  "You need not decide tonight or tomorrow. You know where to find your queen, Margaery."

  She nodded slowly. "Y-Yes, Your Grace. I will think on it earnestly."

  Margaery let her true feelings show after she left the room, a soft giggle leaving her lips. Not for the reason Cersei Lannister might have wished, but because it gave her a heady rush to play this game.

  She had not truly expected just how much she would enjoy it.

  Ser Morwyn at her back again, she found herself returning to her garden, illuminated only by the moon and the few torches hanging off the red bricks now. The knight she had chosen to be her sworn shield had stuck behind at the entrance as she sat and drank in the scents.

  Ever since she had heard stories about Garth Greenhand and his many sons and daughters or Serwyn of the Mirror Shield as a girl, Margaery had wondered about magic. Even when the septas and septons and maesters told her that it was dead and gone, she still could not help but wonder and dream.

  And while her cousins had always chosen to play the parts of maidens good and pure in their games, she had always chosen to play the wicked sorceress or frightful witch…

  She soon retrieved the rose from underneath her gown, having grown accustomed to how unpleasantly it pricked at her belly. For a moment it almost seemed loath to leave her, at least until she pricked her finger on one of its thorns as she had at least a dozen times now.

  That heavenly scent quickly filled the air, overpowering any other scent that might have lingered, but that wasn't all. It had prompted its children to do the same, the scent so strong she had to take a seat on the dirt.

  Margaery had made a promise to herself that if she was to be queen, that she would not be the kind of queen who only danced to the tune of her kingly husband, amounting to nothing but a threadbare mention in the books the maesters wrote. And as she sat under the stars and looked upon the fruits of her labors, she promised it to herself again.

  For while she would eventually become dust on the wind, her garden would remain, just as the Wall remained long after Brandon Stark had passed.

  Bran?

  Since Bran could remember he had dreamed of knights like Aemon the Dragonknight or Ser Barristan Selmy, and he had met and even spoken to the second at King's Landing. He had been older than how the stories made him out to be, but he was still kind and strong and everything a knight should be.

  Uncle Brynden, or the Blackfish as he said in jest sometimes, was much the same, though the first thing he had said that had stuck with Bran was that war was not as the singers described it, and that very night he had dreamt of a war so terrible that he wondered how anyone could stomach it.

  As he stood against his aunt now, knights and even lords on either side with their hands on their swords, he wondered if he would soon see it for himself.

  "This is madness, Lysa, madness and folly. The Vale will not stand for a war as this. You must see that much."

  "And it will not stand for a conniving whoremonger and a murderess!" Lord Yohn Royce's voice rang out, and it was repeated by many of the men there.

  His bronze armor had caught his wonder when he had first seen it, carved with dozens of runes in the manner of the First Men.

  "Lies! Treacherous lies!" his aunt screamed, pointing at each of them. "The queen has you all fooled, dancing on the strings of her pet sorcerer!"

  Bran glanced at the frightened boy behind her, his cousin. He looked even smaller now, and sicker. He wished he could do something, but he was only a boy as well.

  "Lysa, please. Cat's own husband has said the same, has even found evidence. You know he has no reason to love the Lannisters."

  "Lies! All lies! It is by the grace of my son that you are still Knight of the Bloody Gate. You will defend him with your life if you have to."

  "None of us here would harm our young lord, you madwoman," Lord Horton Redfort shouted.

  "You will hold your tongue!" his aunt tried, but she was shouted down by the others. Desperate, she took her son and held him to her chest. "The good, pious people of the Vale will not stand for this affront!"

  Bran heard Uncle Brynden sigh, the lines on his face seeming deeper. "You have left me no choice, Lysa." He turned to the men assembled against them next. "Knights of House Arryn! No harm will come to my niece and her son, you have my word. Stand aside for all our sake."

  There was a pause that seemed to go on forever, but one by one the knights began to lower their hands from their sword, starting with who he believed was Ser Marwyn Bullmore and ending with Ser Vardis Egan.

  His aunt did not take the sight well. "Treachery! You betray your lord with this! You dishonor yourselves! None of you are worthy of being called knights!"

  She was still screaming as the lords moved forward, clutching her son as she sat the pale weirwood throne, and she screamed when they separated them as well. Bran saw his cousin openly wailing as he sat his throne alone now.

  Uncle Brynden laid a hand on his shoulder. "Your mother was led astray by an evil man, Robert. You must be brave for her, for your father. No harm will come to you while I still breathe."

  His cousin trembled as he gave a whisper of a nod, his eyes red and watery.

  "Good lad. If you would help the lord to his rooms, Maester Coleman."

  The thin reed of a maester nodded, spiriting away his still sniffling cousin. Finally, Uncle Brynden sighed as he turned to the assembled knights and lords.

  "We aren't out of the woods yet, I fear."

  "The Graftons and those houses closest to them have ignored all our letters," Lord Royce mentioned. "Though that doesn't surprise me. They have not forgotten how Jon Arryn sacked Gulltown."

  "The Arryns of Gulltown have also nursed slights for two centuries now," his uncle continued softly. "With House Arryn as weak as it is now, they might smell blood in the water and join their strength to the Graftons."

  "Aye," Ser Gilwood Hunter grumbled. "And for all the Lady Waynwood has supported us in this, she had not come herself. I suspect she intends to wait this out as she continues to groom Harrold Hardyng for a lordship."

  Lord Redfort harrumphed at that. "The son of a landed knight as Lord of the Eyrie? It is absurd."

  "If only Denys or Elbert Arryn had lived…" Ser Wymond Templeton muttered.

  "Enough of this," Uncle Brynden scolded. "Robert Arryn is a sickly boy, it is true, but he would not be the first sickly boy to grow into a man as strong as an ox."

  There were nods and words of agreement.

  "The young Brandon Stark handled himself well." Bran's eyes turned to Lord Royce, his cheeks feeling hot at the praise. "Older boys and even knights have been unmanned by less."

  He tried not to pout as Uncle Brynden ruffled his hair. "That he has." His uncle's deep blue eyes caught his. "To the yard then? Some hours there should clear our heads and make our sleep come easier."

  Bran nodded eagerly. The best parts of the day were when he had a training sword in hand.

  And later that night, his uncle had spoken truly, as sleep had come easily. Except that with it came not one dream, but a hundred.

  He dreamed of two stags locked in battle over the corpse of another.

  He dreamed of a pride of lions all alone, starving as they bickered.

  He dreamed of a queen with dark eyes and flowers in her hair, the dirt beneath her bare feet wet with blood.

  He dreamed of two dragons soaring high above an army of spears.

  He dreamed of a falcon torn apart by grasping hands.

  He dreamed of another dragon, green as the forest, a man all in yellow on its back.

  He dreamed of a ship drenched in blood, its crew as silent as the grave.

  He dreamed of the dead marching on the Wall.

  He wanted to scream as it continued, to wake, but he could not. You are never more awake than now, he heard someone whisper, and a caw almost like a raven's. Bran wanted to argue otherwise, but he could not.

  He dreamed of shambling horrors, black oozing out of their eyes and mouth.

  He dreamed of hungry masses overcoming black walls and haunting screams as dozens were fed to flames as bright as the sun.

  He dreamed of a pack of wolves smothered in vines and thorns.

  It is when you are awake that you are truly asleep, Brandon Stark. You must see the world for what it is.

  The last he dreamed before he woke screaming was of a winter that would swallow the world, of a sun that would not rise, of a night that would not end.