[77] The Queen of Thornes

Chapter 77: The Queen of Thornes

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Margaery’s palms stung from clapping, but she didn’t stop. Not until the last drop of Joffrey’s blood seeped into the cracks between the cobblestones. A roar louder than all the applause combined shook the city.

Her gaze lifted from the dark stain to the sky, where Viserion circled like a gilded vulture. She couldn't help but smile.

That dragon… it's mine. Or it would be once the man who rode it became hers.

She turned her smile toward Viserys as he acknowledged the roaring crowd, his face impassive beneath the splatter of crimson. When he pivoted to leave, she was already at his side, slipping her arm through his with practiced ease. The gesture drew approving murmurs from the onlookers—their king and their rose, united. Viserys didn’t stiffen or pull away, his stride steady as they descended the platform.

“Your Grace,” she said, sweetening her voice just enough to carry over the fading cheers. “A decisive stroke. The realm will sleep safer tonight.”

He hummed noncommittally, eyes forward. Margaery kept her smile fixed, though her mind raced. Why hasn’t he announced the marriage yet? The question gnawed at her each time courtiers bowed to them as a pair, each time his hand brushed hers during feasts.

Her father’s impatience had become a daily nuisance, but Margaery knew better than to push. He was the first dragonrider in two centuries, and she didn't want to piss off her to-be husband. Her father would achieve nothing but scorn. So she'd chosen to leave this to her grandmother.

Olenna Tyrell's ship would dock within days. Let the Queen of Thorns handle the prickly details.

As they passed the Stark contingent, Margaery’s grip tightened imperceptibly on Viserys’ arm. Sansa stood half-hidden behind Lady Catelyn, her Tully-blue eyes fixed on the king with a look Margaery couldn’t quite parse—awe? Longing?

Foolish girl. What did she do to blow up such an opportunity? Margaery had heard about the fantasy-like rescue story of Sansa, and she'd grown worried when later news about Viserys granting the North independence surfaced. That had made her heart beat faster, thinking she'd lost to Sansa.

But given how that girl was hiding behind her mother, refusing to meet eyes with Viserys, she realized those worries were nonsense.

The North had its independence, but here in the South, Sansa was just another wide-eyed pawn. Margaery’s lips curved higher. Let the wolf pup stare. The same went for the three Sand Snakes; she’d heard that they were in the castle, but they didn’t show themselves to the public after Dorne’s betrayal. Margaery was curious what he’d do to them.

Viserys’ attention had already moved on, his focus sharpening as a Tyrell captain approached to report on the city’s grain stores.

“Take Cersei Lannister back to her chambers. Be sure she doesn't kill herself,” Viserys said, dismissing the man before turning to Margaery. His thumb grazed her wrist, a fleeting touch that warmed her skin through the silk sleeve. “Walk with me to the council chambers. I'd prefer company after the bloodbath earlier.”

“Of course, my love,” she said, her voice doing nothing to quiet down, as she fell into step. The dragon’s shadow passed over them again, and Margaery didn’t bother hiding her upward glance.

Soon, she promised herself. When grandmother arrives, they'd make him see. A dragon needs his rose, after all.

****

Robb leaned against the cold stone windowsill, watching torchlight flicker across the maze of alleys below. The scent of charred wood still clung to the city, mingling with the salt breeze from Blackwater Bay.

His head was hurting from all these thoughts, just when warm arms circled his waist from behind. "You should be celebrating," Talisa murmured into his back, her breath tickling through his linen tunic. "The man who ordered your father's death just lost his head. So what are you doing, staring like that?"

He covered her hands with his own, calloused fingers brushing over smooth skin. "Aye. And I'd toast to it properly if..."

"If?"

Robb turned in her embrace, finding her dark eyes still heavy with sleep. Moonlight caught the silver threads in her nightdress, making her look like some spirit from Old Nan's tales. "Did you see Sansa at the execution? How she trembled?"

Talisa's thumbs traced idle circles over his hips. "She's gentle. Not made for bloodshed."

"Gentle doesn't explain why she looks away every time Viserys glances her way." The memory curdled in his gut—Sansa shrinking behind their mother's shoulder in the throne room, Viserys' violet eyes lingering a heartbeat too long before turning coldly away. "I meant to propose a match between them. Secure the North's position. But now..."

"Now you play the disappointed matchmaker?" Talisa's laugh was soft, edged with knowing. "You, who tore up the Frey contract for a foreign nurse?"

He caught her wandering hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "This is different. She wants him. Even if she looks away, it’s obvious she wants him. They’re having a quarrel. But I've seen how she—"

"Puppy eyes and blushes don't make a queen. Plus, we don’t know for sure unless she says she really does like him," Talisa stepped back, the loss of her warmth making the chamber feel suddenly cavernous. "Or would you force her into a cage of politics, like how you were almost pulled into one?"

The accusation stabbed him. Somewhere in the keep, a door slammed, the sound echoing through the ancient stones, stopping the awkward silence from settling.

"She's not you," Robb said at last. "She was raised for this. Trained to—"

"To smile while her heart breaks? Accept a man who’s flaunting another woman in front of her?" Talisa crossed to the bedside carafe, pouring two cups of honeyed wine. The liquid glowed amber in the weak moonlight. "You Starks. So quick to martyr yourselves on duty's altar."

He accepted the cup but didn't drink. "If the Tyrell girl secures him first..."

"Then perhaps your dragon king prefers roses to wolves." She sipped her wine, watching him over the rim. "Or perhaps he's waiting to see which party offers the best. So far he’s been a political mind."

Robb snorted. "Oh please. My sister is a far better option, both as a person and as a political chip than Margaery Tyrell."

She laughed, "Well, the Tyrell girl is pretty too, and she knows when to make her move. I’ve seen it. Plus, she comes with a hundred thousand swords and a grandmother who reminds people of Tywin Lannister." Talisa set her cup down with a sharp click. "But I do respect my sister-in-law and would be in pain to see her hurt. So if you ask me how to make her win over the Tyrell girl… I say send your mother to Viserys to talk about the marriage. If anyone can—"

"Mother would sooner strangle Viserys than let him near Sansa again."

"Come on, they just need to have a conversation," she said. “I’m sure her opinion about Viserys is much better now after she saw him kill Joffrey with his own hands, respecting your people’s tradition. Whatever your mother is, she’s a noble lady who knows when to respect people.”

"...Still, I don't think he’d be convinced, dear wife," he sighed. The wine turned sour on his tongue. He set it aside, staring at the artistic drawing across the chamber—a battle scene from the Dance of Dragons, threads fraying where the fire had licked the edges.

She replied with a plain smile. She’d already said her bit.

Outside, Viserys’ dragon roared loudly and shook the night, closer than before. Robb moved to the window in time to see golden wings blot out the stars, circling toward the Dragonpit. When he turned back, Talisa was already climbing into bed, dark hair fanned across the pillows like spilled ink.

She smiled at him from there. "Whatever choice you make, make it fast," she gestured at him with a finger, and he felt drawn toward it. When his head rested on her arms, she kissed his head. "When I passed by earlier, I heard that Olenna Tyrell's ship would dock within the next few days. Despite being an outsider from Essos, even I know it'd be too late then."

Olenna Tyrell's presence alone would change the game.

****

While the entire realm worried about when she’d arrive, Olenna was in her ship, humming and enjoying some snacks.

The river lapped lazily against the hull as she popped a candied plum into her mouth. Her chambers aboard The Thorn’s Delight smelled of rosewater and parchment, the air swirling with the kind of silence only a woman who’d outlived three husbands could appreciate.

Through the latticed window, she felt like she could watch King’s Landing loom in the distance—even though it was half a day’s ride on horseback after getting down this ship. She should be there by the next evening.

How pitiful, she mused, brushing sugar from her skirts. I spent decades fighting against the Lannister, only to miss the moment the lion cub king’s head rolls.

The raven’s account of Joffrey’s execution still lay open on her desk, its ink smudged from her grip. Mace had repeated the details twice in his letter—how the boy-king had pissed himself, how Viserys swung the sword one-handed like he was chopping firewood. A shame she hadn’t been there to whisper a final quip in the little monster’s ear.

At this age, she was used to missing out on seeing world-changing events with her own two eyes. Few were lucky to witness such things.

– Knock Knock!

Gentle knocks rattled the cabin door, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“Is it the lemon cakes? Come in,” she called without looking up. The Arbor gold had left her tongue craving something tart. “And for the love of the Seven, tell the captain to stop tacking. This wobbling’s fit to turn my stomach!”

The hinges creaked. There was no clink of porcelain and no simpering apology.

Olenna turned just as the door clicked shut. A hooded figure stood between her and the exit, hands gloved, face shadowed. Her pulse quickened—a novelty at her age.

“How droll,” she drawled, rising slowly. Her joints protested, but she’d be damned if she’d cower. “Did Tywin Lannister send you? Tell him if he wanted a reunion, he could’ve—mmph!”

The man had moved like a blur, and his hand clamped over her mouth, leather and iron pressing her lips shut. The other arm snaked around her torso, lifting her clear off the floor. She kicked, her slipper flying off to smack a Myrish vase. It shattered.

“Shhh,” his voice rumbled behind her ear. It was young, male, faintly amused. She almost… recognized it. What the hell? No way, is that…?

At this age, she couldn’t struggle more than that. So she bit down hard. The glove tasted of lye and something metallic. Her captor didn’t flinch. The hood fell back.

Viserys Targaryen smiled at her reflection in the window—all sharp angles and colder eyes than the polite boy who’d visited Highgarden. His eyes seemed to announce that whatever cooperation and cowardice he’d shown during their first meeting, it was all an act. All to get her working with him.

His free hand raised a dagger, its hilt carved with Lannister lions. Clever, she thought, even as her heart stuttered. Frame the corpse for Tywin’s brood. Leave the Reach scrambling.

“Sorry, granny.” The blade hovered at her ribs. “You’re too dangerous to be kept alive.”

She met his gaze in the glass, chin high. Let him see her laugh lines, her unblinking stare. Let him remember this.

The steel slid between her bones like a hot knife through butter. Darkness came swift. The last thing she tasted was candied plum. “Rot in hell,” his voice grew distant.

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