Game of Thrones: Reign of the Dragonking

Chapter 33: A Dragon and a Rose

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Margaery Tyrell sat by the window, knees drawn tight against her chest, the scent of blooming roses drifting faintly through the open shutters. Beyond the carved frame of latticework, the Mander River slid along its course, sunlight flickering on the gentle currents. A scattering of willow trees bowed their slender branches toward the water's surface, their leaves swaying in a hush of green and gold. Beyond them, the patchwork fields of the Reach spread wide and peaceful as if the troubles of the realm could not quite breach this pocket of beauty. Yet Margaery felt every ounce of turmoil pressing down on her shoulders.

She should have been Queen by now. The thought burned behind her eyes as she rested her chin on her folded arms.

It was not the best marriage. Her husband liked men, and not just any men, but her brother's. But it was a marriage through which she would have been queen.

Now here she was, sitting as the ornament of a decaying alliance, left behind after Renly's death. Her prospects had seemed so bright once—Renly's court, the promises, the pageantry. All gone now, vanished like morning mist when the sun rose too quickly.

Margaery tightened her grip, her nails lightly digging into the rich fabric of her gown. She didn't believe that Brienne of Tarth had killed Renly. Brienne had adored him and would have willingly died for him, not snuffed out his life. No, the culprit must have been Stannis Baratheon, that humorless stag who, if Brianne's fleeing words were true, deployed sorceries far beyond mortal ken. Likely through that foreign priestess Melisandre, so unsettling with her red robes and secretive smiles.

Red priestesses. They seemed to be crawling out of the cracks these days. Margaery's brows furrowed as she remembered another who she'd encountered in Storm's End. Was her name Nyra? She recalled. Nyra was more beautiful than Melisandre. Margaery recalled her traveling with that Essosi bodyguard and those Dornish Sand Snakes. 

Were they connected somehow? Well, of course, they served the same religion, but were they working together? Were these priestesses part of some larger picture she couldn't see?

Would Renly have not died if they had captured Nyra that day?

It was maddening how few answers she had. She was well-educated and clever; she prided herself on it. Yet here she was, a mere piece on a game board that shifted too quickly for her to follow. 

Dragons supposedly long dead were now rumored to live again, and dark magic walked the world. Mages—real mages—stirred in the shadows, and noble houses toppled under the weight of betrayals and broken oaths.

Renly's death had unraveled so much. His supporters, those who once cheered and flourished under his banners, had scattered like startled birds. Many had bent the knee to Stannis now that Renly's cause crumbled. But House Tyrell stood in a precarious position. Margaery hated it.

Her engagement to Renly had been a strategic link, but Stannis already had a wife and no appetite for romantic entanglements. He was as rigid as the steel in the swords he commanded. No easy path lay open for Margaery to seduce the stag and secure her family's station. Her station.

She was once supposed to be a Queen, but now her family was busy trying to ensure that the vassal lords weren't mad.

She sighed again, a weary exhalation that fogged the air before her. Winter was coming. Outside, a breeze stirred the willow branches, scattering the sunlight into restless patterns on the wooden floor. Margaery's mind drifted with them, trying to piece together a future from the shards of what remained.

A soft knock rapped at the door, pulling her from spiraling thoughts. Margaery blinked. What's this now? She'd asked that nobody disturb her, so this was important.

She took a final look at the tranquil scene beyond the window, such a contrast to the turmoil roiling inside her, and then turned her head. "Yes?"

"Young lady," came her handmaiden's voice, muffled yet polite through the thick oak. "Lady Olenna is waiting for you… with very important guests."

Margaery's heart gave a subtle twist. Important guests? Her grandmother didn't drop words like that lightly. Guests who warranted calling Margaery out of her brooding? 

She released her legs and stood, smoothing the creases from her gown. Already, her mind shifted into a more controlled persona: the gracious hostess, the poised noblewoman. If nothing else, Margaery Tyrell knew how to smile and charm, listen keenly, and navigate the twisting currents of politics. She inhaled, steadying herself.

"Yes, I'll be there soon," she called, her voice clear but calm. She ran her fingers through her hair, brushing away the lingering daze of solitude. 

****

The new meeting room had none of the stiff formality of our earlier encounter. Gone were the cramped corners and suspicious glares. Instead, we'd settled into a spacious salon bedecked in the Tyrell style—warm greens and golds, floral tapestries on the walls, and plush sofas arranged in a gracious circle. 

The scent of fresh blossoms drifted in from the open windows framed by pale curtains. A low table between us offered trays of fruits and delicate pastries. 

How nice. It was as though the Tyrells had decided to host this discussion as a pleasant gathering rather than a political duel. How easy people are.

Olenna Tyrell sat opposite me, her cane resting against a cushioned arm. Her posture was no less regal than before. Still, she indulged in small talk now, making witty remarks about the weather and the Reach's abundant harvest, occasionally tossing gentle jibes at her own absent son. Garlan and Loras stood nearby, and their tensions were no more present, or at least they didn't show it anymore. They managed polite smiles and even a laugh or two when Olenna teased them. 

I maintained an easy grin and accepted their hospitality. At the same time, Kinvara sat by my side and occasionally joined the conversation.

They asked light questions as if we were old friends catching up. They wanted to know how I had fared these past seventeen years in exile, how I survived after Robert's Rebellion, and what curiosities I encountered in Essos. They listened, feigning or perhaps feeling genuine interest in my stories of Illyrio's manse in Pentos, the half-forgotten markets I visited. They showed sympathy that was obviously fake toward my hardships when people mocked me, tricked me, and used my family legacy against me.

I offered answers that were neat and measured. I spoke of hardship but never begged for sympathy; I hinted at resourcefulness rather than sorrow. A king couldn't appear to be weak. I painted myself as someone shaped by adversity into a sharper blade, not a broken tool. 

I saw that impressing them with my resilience mattered now—these people respected strength and cunning, not sob stories.

Partway through a mild jest I made about Essosi customs, a servant quietly opened the door to allow someone inside. I looked up, "Ah." It was Margaery Tyrell. 

She slipped in with that effortless grace I'd seen in the TV Show—poised like a dancer and lovely as promised. She looked a little less bright than what I'd last seen her in Storm's End, with visible bags under her eyes. The recent days mustn't have been kind to her. Her gown was the soft green of young leaves, her hair arranged in artful coils. 

Outside, birdsong drifted through the window, and the late afternoon sunlight softened the angles of her face, making her seem almost ethereal.

Olenna's eyes gleamed, seeing me observe her. She waited until Margaery was close enough to join our circle before turning to me with a smile entirely too pleased with itself. "Look at him," she said to her granddaughter, nodding toward me. "Viserys Targaryen, the one true king, and… your to-be husband."

Margaery halted, and her eyes widened briefly before narrowing as she glanced from Olenna to me. I felt a prickle of surprise myself, and I spoke up before she had to. "Uh, Lady Olenna? We didn't talk about this."

"Oh, of course, we didn't," Olenna replied, brushing aside my protest with a wave of her hand. "This is a gift, a surprise. I'm sure you appreciate it. Look at her, she's beautiful." She turned her sharp gaze to Margaery, who had not even acknowledged me at first, too busy gaping at her grandmother in astonishment. After a silent heartbeat, Margaery finally met my eyes. 

I offered a polite smile, and she lowered her gaze as if flustered—though I suspected that her mind was whirring like clockwork gears beneath that charming exterior.

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I cleared my throat. "I understand what you mean, Lady Olenna. She is beautiful," I said slowly, shifting in my seat. Kinvara raised an eyebrow, her presence going a little more attentive now. Meanwhile, Garlan and Loras exchanged quick looks, measuring the implications of this sudden betrothal claim.

"See?" Olenna said, triumphant. "So it's agreed? I give you my army and support, and you give me great-grandchildren. A proper heir to the throne. Sounds perfectly reasonable to me."

I'd seen this coming, so I kept myself easily composed. I let a small chuckle escape; anything too stiff might ruin this fragile rapport. "I'd be lucky to have such a beautiful wife, except there is one complication," I said. "Remember when I mentioned my alliance with Dorne?"

Olenna's triumphant face soured slightly. "Oh, don't tell me you're engaged to Arianne Martell," she said, letting out a theatrical sigh. "No disrespect meant, but that girl's reputation is hardly pristine. You should have mentioned this before."

I shook my head. "We're not engaged, no. But I have left that option open. The Martells have been very supportive. Given their position, it's wise not to discard that possibility out of hand."

That was a lie. Oberyn and Doran had chosen to support me while knowing Arianne hated me. It was only after that did I bed that girl. And I'd been clear to Oberyn afterward that I likely wouldn't marry his niece, so he sent his daughters with me. So they wouldn't mind if I ended up not marrying Arianne. But this hag did not need to know any of that.

Olenna's brows knitted. She tapped a finger on the sofa's arm, considering my words. "So if you were to be betrothed to Margaery, you might lose favor with Dorne? You think you need them?" Her skepticism slipped into her tone, though she kept her voice measured. "The Tyrells are far stronger than the Martells. Why bother appeasing them?"

I inclined my head, acknowledging her point. But Kinvara spoke in my stead, "I've had this talk with him before. You are powerful, yes. But a true King of the Seven Kingdoms must consider all the Kingdoms. Dorne's exclusion would fracture the realm. It is a must."

I nodded, "I need them included, at least for a time. And as you've kindly pointed out, Arianne's reputation is questionable, making Margaery a far more suitable queen—once the right moment comes. If you know what I mean."

I watched Olenna's eyes narrow thoughtfully. She understood the subtext: publicly, I might not be able to declare Margaery as my future queen until the dust settled. But privately, the promise lay there. If I captured the throne, if all went as planned, why would I choose a less fitting bride over the clever rose before me?

But at the same time, this woman was a cautious old rose. She might not accept it. It was really a 50/50 situation. She might not agree out of caution, out of spite to make the alliance solid, but she might also agree given she trusted her granddaughter a lot to seduce me to be loyal. Olenna herself had seduced her husband into marriage, and she seemed to see herself in her granddaughter. I was sure she felt confident enough in Margaery to seduce the Beggar King.

So, I couldn't be sure what she'd choose.

Olenna shifted her weight, and her unease was apparent in the slight creak of the sofa. "I don't like this limbo, I'll be honest with you," she said curtly. "But I do see the sense in your strategy, Prince. Dorne's cooperation strengthens your claim. But once you're secure on the throne, you won't forget the debt you owe Highgarden, will you? The Tyrells shan't be cheated out of what we've earned. When the time is ripe, Margaery will have the position she deserves. I need your word that Margaery will bear your heir."

A fragile silence seemed to settle over the room. I kept my face as sincere as I could manage.

Heir? Good luck with that. I held back a smile. It's still months till Stannis' attack, and by then, not only will my dragon be large, but even I… heh. I can choose whoever I want to have as my heir.

In truth, once I held the throne, I'd have greater freedom to choose. Margaery was not a bad option, but I didn't plan to rule for a single generation. A dragon owed no fealty to a rose. But that was a matter for the future. For now…

"Yes," I said, locking the moment in place with a final nod. "You have my word."

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Margaery's posture relax by a fraction. Although she still looked confused, she trusted her grandmother a lot. 

Kinvara's gaze flicked between us, calm as ever. Meanwhile, Garlan and Loras observed quietly, their expressions more guarded than before but not openly hostile. Lady Olenna smiled.

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