[122] The Queen and the Slave
Chapter 122: The Queen and the Slave
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Margaery Tyrell followed her Tyrell guards through the conquered halls of Casterly Rock, her slippered feet gliding across stone floors that had known only Lannister footsteps for centuries.
The air tasted burnt and acrid, thanks to the lingering wisps of dragonfire that clung to the castle artworks and seeped into the very stone. Every few paces, evidence of the recent battle remained—a discarded helmet, dark streaks that might have been blood, scorched walls where no flame should have reached.
Victory had never smelled so sweet… or so much like ash.
As they approached the great hall, the Tyrell soldiers flanking her stood straighter. “Now,” a herald began to announce her presence, “comes Her Grace, Margaery Tyrell!” as the massive doors swung open to reveal the legendary throne room of House Lannister.
Oh, how powerful it feels, her lips curled up, to be called ‘Her Grace’ in the Lannister castle.
She stepped inside, and her lips shivered as she beheld her husband upon the pale stone throne of the Lannisters. Viserys Targaryen lounged there as if born to it, one leg draped casually over the armrest, his silver-gold hair gleaming in the light streaming through the high windows.
He seemed to have changed his outfit in the hours since she last saw him on dragonback. Now, he wore black leather trimmed with crimson, the colors of his house, yet a deliberate echo of Lannister red.
His violet eyes sparked with draconic fire as they fell upon her. “Dearest wife.”
Tyrell banners stood alongside Targaryen ones, the golden rose and the three-headed dragon united in conquest, hanging above fallen lion standards. The sight sent a thrill of pride through Margaery's chest.
"Your Grace," she said, sinking into a graceful curtsy. "It appears the Rock has fallen to a new king."
"Indeed it has, my rose," Viserys replied, his voice rippling with satisfaction. "And in record time, I might add."
Pride blossomed in her breast. Sometimes it was hard to believe that this man—this king, this dragon—was hers. Well… partially hers, but that was a thought for another time. The way he commanded everywhere he went, the confidence with which he claimed the seat of their enemies... it stirred something primal within her.
"I must thank you for your intervention," she said, rising and approaching the dais. "Garlan reports the battle might have cost thousands of Tyrell lives without your dragons."
"The Reach has provided faithful service," Viserys nodded. "It would be poor repayment to waste Tyrell blood unnecessarily."
A small, unworthy thought flickered through Margaery's mind—that perhaps House Tyrell might have claimed greater glory had they conquered the impregnable fortress alone. How differently the songs would have sung of them then: The Roses that Broke the Rock. But she dismissed the notion almost instantly.
What good was glory if it came drenched in the blood of her countrymen? Better to stand in the dragon's shadow than to burn in its flame.
Power recognizes power. And none in the Seven Kingdoms wield it more decisively than my husband. She knew she had to keep her greed in check.
It was then that she noticed the figure standing to the right of the throne.
Daenerys Targaryen.
Margaery had heard news of the princess's transformation from Garlan, but nothing had prepared her for the reality. The woman beside her husband was no longer merely a Targaryen princess.
Her silver-gold hair framed a face that remained hauntingly beautiful, yet now crowned with elegant horns that curved from her temples like polished ivory. Iridescent scales shimmered across her cheekbones and down her neck, disappearing beneath her gown only to reappear on her exposed forearms. Behind her, a sinuous tail curled gracefully around her legs.
The breath froze in Margaery's lungs.
She is more dragon than woman now.
A cold, creeping dread slithered down Margaery's spine as centuries of Targaryen history flashed through her mind. Brothers wed sisters. Kings took their sisters as Queens. It was their way—their tradition. And here stood Daenerys, blood of Viserys's blood, dragon to his dragon in a way Margaery could never be.
What need would a dragon king have for a rose when he could have another dragon by his side?
She even stands where a queen would sit.
The thought struck Margaery with such visceral force that she nearly staggered. All her careful planning, all her family's maneuvering—would it crumble before ancient Valyrian tradition? What chance did she have against a woman who shared not only Viserys's blood but now his very nature?
Realising she'd been staring for a bit too long, their eyes locking, she decided to address the girl. "Princess Daenerys. Forgive my staring, I'm a bit surprised to see your… remarkable attributes. It is a pleasure to see you for the first time, and in such formidable company beside our King." Her tone was sweet, but her eyes subtly assessed Daenerys's horns, scales, and tail
Daenerys met her gaze in a slight, knowing tilt of her head, her own smile a little wilder and less cultivated than Margaery's. Her voice had a faint, almost imperceptible resonance as she replied. "Lady Margaery. The pleasure is mine. Victory is always sweeter when shared, especially with family. It pleases to spend such quality time with my dear brother after so long.”
Margaery’s smile didn't falter, but her thoughts raced. “...Indeed. The King is fortunate to have such potent support. It speaks volumes of the Targaryen legacy."
“Yes.”
Margaery continued smiling. Something in her expression must have shifted, for Viserys straightened on the throne, his penetrating gaze suddenly more focused.
"Is something amiss, my rose?" he asked, his tone gentle yet probing.
Margaery blinked, forcing her courtly mask back into place with practiced ease. The fear melted from her features, replaced by a smile as carefully cultivated as any bloom in the Highgarden conservatory.
"Nothing, Your Grace," she replied, her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart. "I am merely overwhelmed by the beauty of my sister-in-law, and the victory you two achieved with ease. It delights me to see you on the Lannister throne."
Her husband smiled slightly, perhaps still sensing her unease but moving on. "It is indeed a sight. Sister, what think you of Casterly Rock? Less sand than Meereen, certainly."
Daenerys’s draconic eyes swept the hall before settling on Margaery with a polite nod. "It is formidable. It lives up to the rumors and legends. If we didn't have dragons, who knows how long it'd have taken to breach? How many poor Tyrell lives would have been lost? Thankfully, even thousand year old stones crumble easily enough before fire, as Lady Margaery has witnessed. Highgarden's beauty is of a different nature, I imagine. More life, less grim stone."
Margaery didn't miss the implication. She met Daenerys's gaze, her composure firmly in place. "...Highgarden thrives on sun and soil, Princess. We cultivate beauty, while the Lannisters hoarded gold within their mountain. Each has its strengths. But today, it seems fire has proven the stronger argument."
Daenerys laughed. "Fire always has the strongest argument, Lady Margaery. It is the way of dragons. As a woman married to a Targaryen, you should realize that truth as soon as you can.”
What a dangerous woman she was, this Daenerys.
No wonder she took the Slaver's Bay.
Power lies where men believe it lies, she told herself. And I must make him believe it lies with me at his side, not with his sister.
Otherwise her position was in danger. The future was looking uncertain day by day.
Viserys studied her for a moment longer, then his expression shifted to something more commanding. The momentary gentleness receded, replaced by the imperious king who had conquered half of Westeros with fire and blood.
"Good," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Now, where is the slave?"
The question momentarily confused Margaery, until understanding dawned like a cold sunrise. Her heart quickened with anticipation.
"I’ve brought her with me, Your Grace," she replied, clapping her hands twice.
At her signal, a side door opened. Two Tyrell guards entered, half-dragging between them a figure Margaery would have scarcely recognized had she not been anticipating this moment.
How the mighty have fallen.
Cersei Lannister stumbled forward, heavy iron chains binding her wrists and ankles. Her once-golden hair hung in dirty, matted strands around a face hollow with defeat. The finery she had once worn was replaced by a tattered shift that might have belonged to a scullery maid.
Dark bruises circled her wrists where the chains had chafed. She truly looked like a slave now.
The woman who once called me "little dove" now caged like one.
For a moment, Cersei seemed disoriented, her gaze unfocused as she blinked in the throne room's light. It was as if she was recalling the sweet, sweet memories she had in this castle.
Then, as if breaking through a fog, her eyes cleared—and found Viserys seated upon her father's throne.
There was only silent acceptance in her eyes now. Or so Margaery thought at first. It took her a bit of focus, but she noticed the hidden, impotent rage underneath.
“You…” Cersei's mouth opened, but no other words emerged, as if the reality before her had stolen her very voice.
A fierce satisfaction bloomed in Margaery's chest as she watched the former queen regent take in the full measure of her fall.
The woman who had once sneered at her, who had dismissed House Tyrell as upjumped stewards, who had schemed and plotted against them... now stood before them in chains, broken and humiliated.
Margaery had a lot of things to worry about, old and new. Sansa, Arianne, and now Daenerys. But for a moment she forgot it all. Because this sight… it was bliss.
In the game of thrones, you win or you die. And today, we have won.
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