The corridors of the Red Keep always felt like a prison to me. Maybe it was because I rarely left my chambers unless summoned, or because whispers seemed to follow me whenever I did. My mother said it was because I was shy, but I knew better—it was fear. Fear of eyes watching me. Judging. Waiting.

My tutors taught me everything expected of a future ruler—politics, history, diplomacy—though my grandfather’s words rang in my ears often enough: He’ll be easier to control this way. I hated that I remembered them so clearly. I hated how true they felt.

But none of that mattered today. Today I was to meet my future wife.

Margaery.

I’d heard things about her. Everyone had. That she was beautiful, clever, kind when it suited her, sharp as any blade when it didn’t. My mother liked her enough, which meant I was supposed to. My grandfather liked her too, which probably meant I shouldn’t trust her.

I told myself it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like she’d actually want to be here.

I walked into the gardens where we were to meet, my palms cold despite the summer sun. The air was heavy with roses, sunlight painting everything in gold, the fountain gurgling softly as though the world itself wanted to mock me for being so nervous.

Then I saw her.

Margaery stood at the center of the garden, speaking softly to one of the servants before sending them away with a smile. She turned, and the sunlight seemed to follow her. I hated how poetic the thought was.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice warm as honey, her smile easy and bright. She curtsied gracefully before stepping closer. “I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

I froze, unsure what to say. Words jammed in my throat, fighting to get out. This was why I hated conversations. People expected things of you. Things like confidence, charm. I had neither.

She tilted her head when I didn’t answer immediately, her smile not faltering. Not even a flicker of irritation crossed her face. Instead, she said, “Would you like to walk with me? It’s much lovelier near the roses.”