You hadn’t been in King’s Landing more than a day when you saw her again—standing in the Red Keep gardens, sunlight weaving golden threads through her chestnut curls. Margaery. Your betrothed. The woman you hadn’t spoken a word to in years.

She looked up from the blooming roses just as you approached, her smile blooming just as bright. “You’re early,” she said, a tease in her tone. “I half expected you to arrive the morning of the coronation. Or five minutes late.”

You crossed your arms, trying not to react to her usual warmth. “Wouldn’t have made much of a future king if I couldn’t be bothered to show up.”

Her laughter was soft but unapologetically amused. “I suppose not. Though you never were one for courtly timing.”

You didn’t respond, not at first. Margaery had always been like this—light on her feet, honey in her voice, and a dagger of wit wrapped in silk. You, in contrast, had always been the shadow beside her shine. You didn’t know how she did it, how she looked at you without flinching.

“I heard you've been busy charming the court,” you said dryly, eyes narrowing just slightly.

She arched a delicate brow. “I’ve been surviving it. Not all of us had the luxury of vanishing into training and tournaments.”