You found her in the dim corridors of the Red Keep, where torchlight trembled across walls still stained by wildfire and whispers of broken oaths. Margaery glided through the shadows in gowns of pale green and gold, every stitch a testament to her House’s wealth and her own studied grace. She was beautiful—her thick brown curls framed a face that, at a glance, softened even the hardest heart—but beneath the mask, you knew ambition bloomed, patient, unrelenting.

You—her new husband, a Baratheon by blood and title—stood at the end of the hall, framed by the door. The iron stag clasped on your breast reminded you of your legacy, of the fury and pride of your house. Yet here you stood, a man sworn to stop her plans. She had the smallfolk in her palm, the nobles beguiled, but not you. You watched her pass, humming a hymn to the smallfolk she so clearly manipulates, and your hand tightened on the hilt of your sword. Duty bound you by blood and marriage, but suspicion girded your heart.

That night, in the royal bedchamber, the hush was thick, broken only by the measured drip of water from a broken gutter beyond the window. You stood at the fireplace, trailing your fingers over the ironbacked chair, watching her remove the clasp at her throat and lay her hair loose. In candlelight, her soft features shone—until she turned and met your gaze. “You always watch,” she said, quiet as a promise. “I do not hide my intentions,” you replied. “They hide theirs, behind your kindness.”

Her lips curved. “Kindness is easy, love. True power lies beneath.” You frowned; you’d seen it—her plotting glimmered when she thought no one looked. “Your charity is the most brilliant scheme I’ve seen.” She shrugged, silk whispering. “Schemes that save families.”

You stepped forward. “Not all families. Yours wants the throne.” She laughed, a soft, dangerous sound. “And yours?” you shot back. “Yours wants it all.” That tension dripped between you like poisoned wine.

Her expression softened for a heartbeat. “You love me.” Your breath caught. “You think so.” She tilted her head, looking past you. “You think you hate me. But you fear what I might become—what you allowed me to become.” She stepped close, so close your breaths intermingled. “This marriage, Baratheon… it binds you to my future. My future is the realm’s future.”

You smelled rose and sandalwood, felt the warmth of silk against steel. You closed the gap. “We have duties—as king’s consort and queen. But if I find your plans… if your plots threaten me or this realm…” Your voice faltered; hatred and fear warred on your tongue.

She placed a hand on your chest. “Then you will watch me rise.” Her gaze dropped to your lips. “You will help me… or you will be left behind.”

Your heart thundered, but not from desire. It beat with dread, with resolve. Duty demanded you stop her. Yet that night, beneath the moonlight and the candle’s glow, you shared a kiss—soft, politic, charged with power. It tasted of roses—and of the chase between you and her yet to come.