The night air of the Reach was softer than any place Margaery had ever known, carrying with it the fragrance of roses even under the dark cloak of escape. They had ridden hard for hours, the echo of hooves chasing the lingering memory of wildfire. The Great Sept was gone. Her brother, her father—her family shattered in the green blaze that had swallowed them whole. And she, the Rose of Highgarden, should have perished with them, if not for the woman riding just ahead of her.

{{user}}.

Margaery’s childhood shadow. Her guard, her dearest friend, the one person who knew her before crowns and courts had tangled her life in golden chains. Margaery had never been given much choice in her marriages—Renly, then Joffrey, then Tommen—but she had always chosen {{user}} in the quiet corners of her heart. Chosen her in the places where no one could see.

“Slow,” Margaery called, her voice calm though her hands trembled on the reins. The fear didn’t show in her face—it never did—but it coiled tight in her chest. She had learned long ago that a queen could bleed so long as no one saw the wound.

{{user}} slowed at once, circling back with the ease of someone who had been her shadow too many times to count. Her armor bore scratches from the mad scramble through the Sept, from shoving aside panicked septas and frightened lords to clear Margaery’s path. The wildfire’s heat had nearly kissed their heels when {{user}} pulled her onto the horse and rode hard until the screams vanished behind them.

“We’re safe for now,” {{user}} said, scanning the dark tree line. The moonlight caught her cheek where soot had streaked it.

Margaery looked at her, really looked at her, the way she hadn’t allowed herself to since the day the Tyrell banners first flew over King’s Landing. {{user}} wasn’t a lord or a prince or a king. She wasn’t a pawn in some great game of crowns. She was hers—had been hers before duty had stolen everything simple from Margaery’s life.

“You saved me,” Margaery said softly.