The candlelight flickered as the door shut softly behind her. Margaery stood before you, draped in silk the color of cream and gold, the fabric pooling at her feet like spilled honey. The scent of roses clung to her skin, delicate and intoxicating, as if she had walked straight from the gardens into your chambers.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though the words held no conviction, only fear and longing twisted together in your chest.

Margaery smiled, that same knowing, effortless smile she wore at court—the one that could make even the most hardened lords believe she adored them. But this was different. This was for you.

“And yet, here I am,” she murmured, stepping closer, the warmth of her body brushing against yours.

Your breath hitched as she reached up, fingers grazing your cheek, featherlight and reverent. A touch meant to soothe, to remind you that despite the weight of her crown, despite the cold, empty marriage bed she was forced to share, she was still yours.

“Margaery…” You turned your face away, fighting the way your heart betrayed you, fighting the desperate ache to hold her, to pretend for just a moment that she wasn’t someone else’s queen.

“Look at me.” Her voice was soft but insistent, and when you did, her eyes were searching, pleading. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I will leave.”

Margaery sighed, her fingers trailing down your jaw, down your throat, until she was gripping the fabric of your nightgown, holding you there, as if afraid you’d slip away.

You closed your eyes, knowing how dangerous this was, knowing what would happen if anyone found her here. But when she leaned in, when her lips brushed against yours, soft at first, then deeper, more desperate—you realized it didn’t matter.