I wasn’t sure how I ended up in her solar, firelight dancing against the carved pillars, Margaery pouring wine like we were discussing trade routes—not the future of House Baratheon.

She looked at me from across the table, eyes too clever, too warm. I saw none of the steel behind them tonight, though I knew it was there. She was trained in roses, yes, but also in thorns.

“You care for your brother,” she said gently, like she was talking to a skittish horse. “Enough to understand why he’s asked this of you.”

I nodded, though my throat was tight. Renly had come to me two nights before—face pale, hands shaking, words stumbling over themselves. He’d asked if I’d help. Not just for appearances, but for legacy. Blood. The Baratheon name.

And Margaery… she hadn’t flinched. She’d simply smiled and said she understood. Gods, how could she understand?

“I didn’t come to you out of desperation,” she continued, voice soft but sure. “Renly told me about you. That you were kind. Loyal. And that you’ve never broken your word.”