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From the blackened ash of where the great Sept of Baelor once stood, a single flower emerges from the ground after its destruction. It was not a sudden growth; this was a seed that took the necessary time to grow. The lack of water and sunlight did not hinder its development however, and the very place it had taken root should have been impossible for its survival.
But it still continued to flourish. It still continued to grow taller, to grow stronger, until it reached a blooming, healthy height.
King’s Landing had to deal with the carnage sooner or later, and so when the clearing began, no one paid attention to the flower. It was flawlessly blended in with the black soot and ash. It was not until a small child, playing in the ruins, came across it. Interested, he kneeled until it became directly eye level to him. His eyes were bright with wonder on how anything could have even lived inside the destruction, much less thrived. There was something inside of him screaming to leave it alone, for it was probably cursed from the Faith. But he was young and curious.
He pricked his finger on a thorn after plucking the black rose. The blood was sparse and barely a wound, but it still dripped a single drop on the ground. The boy sucked on his finger and continued his day, with no harm unleashed on anyone, something a small part of him feared he had done.
Nothing happened in King’s Landing, but somewhere in the lush land of the Reach, Margaery Tyrell wakes up with the pain of a thousand thorns on her body.
-
She remembers fear. She remembers urgency. She remembers the silent resignation of her brother’s empty golden brown eyes.
Perhaps most of all, she remembers feeling powerless. All her life, she had felt like she had all the cards in the deck. She knew she was a step ahead of everyone, and even if she was in an unfortunate circumstance that weakened her hold, she could make anyone believe she still had the upper hand. She was the epitome of confidence, not a long time ago.
But nothing could have saved Margaery, or anyone, from what had happened. Cersei made sure of it.
-
The dirt bathing her body is what she feels after the prick.
There is still the feeling of something piercing all over her skin, but she becomes numb against it over time. She cannot move her limbs, but the soft soil feels comfortable enough for her to focus on aside from the searing pain. Her breathing is ragged and dry, a heave that she cannot relieve no matter how much she tries.
Margaery is alive. Like a newborn, she is naked and screaming. There is nothing coherent about her thoughts except for the fact that she is in agony, especially from what she remembers and from what is happening to her now.
There’s no one that comes to her aid, and the painful truth of it silences her. Slowly, everything comes back to her. Her senses, her memories, her control over her body. The first thing she sees is the blue sky, and the cloudless, birdless emptiness of it soothes her aching mind. Slowly, she wills herself to sit up. Again, the pain intensifies, but she had laid for too long. She needs to move to feel like her body is finally her own.
The air was cool but not cold. All around her, everything and nothing seems to be happening. For a moment, she believes to be in some sort of limbo; a Godsless place where she happened to stumble upon. She breathes deeply, her lungs finally content with the air it receives.
She decides to no longer fool herself; she is alive, body and soul. Margaery lifts a hand to her eye level, her skin untarnished and clean. Her entire body is blemish free, as if she freshly returned from bathing.
The fragrance she breathes in is too overtaking for her to ignore. Margaery lays in a field of daffodils. There’s only one place in the world where unique flowers like these have such elegance and beauty.
Her home. Her land.
Margaery rises from a field of despair.
-
Just like how all Lannisters are as “brave as lions”, or how the Starks resemble the wolves in winter, the Tyrells have always, more or less, grown. Lady Olenna would have begged to differ that this house had any redeeming qualities besides their wealth, but after years of residing at Highgarden, she begrudgingly agrees that their knowledge in botany is simply impeccable.
Their motto ‘Growing Strong’ is as it is; their influence over Westeros is undeniable. However, (surprisingly) they do actually grow flowers and herbs and plants, a luxury to be dispersed all over the lands.
Margaery, unlike her brother, never took a heavy interest in the language of flowers. She was talented in sorting and understanding them, but Loras went out of his way to individually pluck and examine them while Margaery just wanted to study under her grandmother’s sharp eye.
If there was anything she willingly did for the flowers, it was to keep them. She tried her best to press and keep all of them one way or another, and that was as hard of a challenge as one might think it was. Being born in Highgarden was already a disadvantage, but constantly being courted by men and women who were oblivious to the type of flowers they were gifting was even harder.
She kept them everywhere, much to the annoyance of her handmaidens. It was in her clothes, her jewelry, her hair, her chambers. Everywhere Margaery could walk, she had a pressed flower somewhere. She never knew where this hobby of hers came from, but when she lays her eyes on any one of them, she immediately softens.
Perhaps it was a reminder of her roots. Or perhaps it was something to ground her from her ever changing environment. Margaery continued this even when she left to wed, but time has wedged itself from her and her hobby.
The first time in a long time she feels the overpowering need to press a flower, was when her eyes landed on Lady Sansa. Her skin was pale and her eyes were so empty and so crestfallen. The more noticeable aspect of her were her bruises blooming all over her skin, and Margaery knew that there were many more hidden underneath her dress.
Bruises the color of lilacs.
-
For a long time, she just lays there. There was not an ounce of embarrassment or shame of the thought that anyone can find her, the Lady of House Tyrell and the Queen of Westeros in full nudity. Somehow, she knew she wouldn’t be found. She was safe.
There was also the feeling of healing just by laying on the ground itself. By no means was she a witch with any knowledge in the magical arts, but everytime she woke up from her much needed rest, there were new flowers every time her eyes opened. It surrounded her body like armor.
Besides the daffodils she was on top of, the first layer of defense she recognized around her were bluebells. The next one were dahlias. Ferns. Gladiolus. Alstroemerias. Iris. Nasturtiums. Chamomiles. Finally, hyacinths. Her breath catches in her throat as her mind slowly comes back to her, as do the knowledge of the flowers she knows so well.
Humility. Dignity. Shelter. Wealth. Strength. Wisdom. Victory. Energy. Rebirth.
All around her, the ground was bursting with colors and life and she felt that, coursing through her own body. It gave her enough strength to stand by herself, to feel the true power of what the flowers gave to her. She doesn’t know how long she has been resting, but her joints doesn’t ache. She feels healthy, but not inhuman. She feels like herself.
Margaery looks around, and it's just the endless woods she first noticed like before. That hasn’t changed. But now that she had stood up, she sees a clear path scattered with petals. Along the road, mandrakes lined on either side of it. Her eyes follow the path and it just continues straight ahead.
Margaery purses her lips and takes a step forward. Her legs do not buckle; a testimony that she is fully healed. Before she leaves her field, she makes sure to pluck one of each flower that had helped her to recover. There’s no explanation at all for the naked and lone Queen of Westeros carrying a bouquet in the forest of the Reach, so she hopes wherever the path is leading her have clothes.
And answers.
-
“You mustn't skip your floriography lessons, girl,” Olenna sternly says, but her eyes betray her.
The radiating five year old Lady Margaery Tyrell snacks on a lemon cake, patiently sitting next to her grandmother. There is without a doubt she is steadily taking after her footsteps. She has yet to bloom into her full potential, and yet Olenna can see the spark of her own in Margaery’s young eyes. The spark of a queen. The queen.
However, the Queen of Thorns is not one to lose, especially not to a child. Margaery smiles up to her, an angel cloaked in sunlight. The green and gold of her dress exemplifies the innocence in her and Olenna’s tough and unreachable walls crack as she watches her own granddaughter try to trick her into excusing her out of her classes.
Yes, the Queen of Thorns is not one to lose. Margaery will just have to learn the hard way. Or perhaps, eventually learn to outmaneuver her. If there’s anyone in the world who can outwit her, she’ll be damned in burning flames of hell if it weren’t her own pupil.
As Olenna watches Margaery’s handmaiden escort her back to her floriography class, Margaery doesn’t look an ounce upset. Instead, she carries the grace of a swan, bowing to her grandmother as she leaves, her lips curving upwards.
Olenna can barely keep the smile off her face.
Her happiness is bubbling now, all over her face and eyes, unable to hide it from the fools around her. They won’t understand it even if it was right underneath their noses, and it was.
Yes, this little one will be the one. The one to bring House Tyrell to its strongest glory.
-
The path led her to a public road. In most scenarios, someone finding a naked woman in the forest would be considered blasphemy and sinful, even pitiful. But the moment she comes forward, an old woman who was carrying a basket of fruit and vegetables on her back immediately took sight of her, despite their great distance between each other.
“Come young woman,” she murmurs after quickly taking off her cloak to cover Margaery. There’s no one else around, but she still feels her cheeks burn red. “Do not fret. I shall clothe you.”
The first words she speaks is dry and brittle. Her sharp tongue from before has been reduced into almost nothing. It strikes fear into her chest, but she wills herself to talk.
“I have no money,” Margaery says quietly. Despite that, the woman holds on to her wrist tightly, as if protective of her.
“Nonsense,” she says. Her eyes are wise beyond her years. “There are worse things in life than having no money.”
After walking for a few long minutes, they reach a small hut. A few more walks down and Margaery can see more huts down the road, but they stop at the nearest one. The old woman enters first and rushes into one of the rooms while Margaery awkwardly stands inside, right near the entrance. The hut is lovely in its own way; it’s cozy and warm and more than enough space for the old woman by herself. But the walls are peeling, and the smell is horrendous. When the woman comes out with the necessary clothing, Margaery takes it gratefully.
“I don't know how to thank you,” she says honestly, her eyes feeling the unfamiliar burn of tears. She doesn’t know why, but the emotions take over her, and the old woman sees it. She shoos Margaery to the room to change, and when she comes back, the woman looks content. The smile on her face warms Margaery’s bones.
“Sit down,” she says to her, already chopping up the vegetables. “Supper will be served soon.” Margaery opens her mouth to protest; she had already been clothed, welcomed into her home, and now she will be fed? If she wasn’t ashamed naked in the field, she is now feeling it in full force.
“Shush, child,” the old woman rolls her eyes. With just a look, all argument on Margaery’s tongue vanishes. The woman continues to cook while Margaery takes this time to ponder.
Charming people has always come naturally to her, like breathing. From the lowest of smallfolk, to the cruelest King of Westeros, Margaery has gotten under everyone's skin in the best way. She has that effect on people, and her beauty helped her greatly.
In front of the old woman, she doesn’t find it in her to speak. Yes she has returned to the land of the living, but Margaery isn’t quite herself, not yet. She just hopes the silence is enough to showcase her gratitude. The old woman doesn’t press either on why she was in the forest naked, nor does she ask for any other information. Something feeling like helplessness brews in her when she realizes she doesn’t have any of those answers either.
Her heart cracks as she remembers her grandmother. The old woman is far from her regality, but there’s a glint in their eyes that are similar. They both know what it takes to be a hardworking woman.
The soup is finished soon and the warmth settles in her belly like she’s never tasted anything this good in her life before. Margaery has no idea how long she has been in the forest, thus not knowing how long its been since she last eaten. It doesn’t matter since she’s healthy and strong, but Margaery can still appreciate the taste of the food.
“It was very delicious,” Margaery says after three bowls. It’s more than what she should have eaten, and her soul is turning in embarrassment, but the old woman just chuckled in amusement.
While they clean the table, her eyes settle softly on Margaery’s bouquet.
“You have a keen eye,” she mentions, referring to the flowers. “I haven't seen that much flowers in this side of the Reach in over two decades.”
Margaery tries to keep her surprise at a minimum. She turns her head to show that she was listening, and fortunately, the old woman continues.
“However, I do suppose times are changing. The worst of the winter has come and passed, and it is only time until spring is upon us.”
Margaery keeps her tone even. “Worst of winter?”
The old woman pauses, but then she looks at Margaery and her confusion. Her face becomes somber at the memories, as if thinking about it made her relive it.
“Or I do hope so the worst has come. In all my years I thought the War of the Five Kings would be the death of us all, but it turns out the dead would be.”
The dead? Before Margaery can dismiss the idea, the old woman talks like she was speaking about a ghost. Everything about her voice was too real, too genuine for her comfort. It gives her skin goosebumps, and the numbness from the pain of the thorns ceases for a second and she almost cries out. It disappears again, but it leaves a stinging reminder.
“The dead came from beyond the Wall. Only the North and the Dragon Queen were able to stop them,” she recounted gravely. “Westeros thought it was a jest. Some still do, but none can deny there was a long night where everything was cold, and nothing went right. Every single soul knew something was wrong.”
Her eyes went misty. The Margaery from before would have escaped the moment she heard of this absurd story, but her heart listened to it thoroughly. The North and the Dragon Queen reuniting to defeat the common enemy; death. It seemed like something straight out of the fairy tale, a novel she read during her past time. Her own story was something absurd, so maybe that was the reason why she listened so closely.
Or perhaps, she believed it as the truth more than the rational side of her wanted to admit.
“And the Queen?”
Margaery did not have to think for another second that it was Cersei who sat on the throne after her. When she asked, her voice was void of any emotion; no anger, no passion, no fury. It was simply curiosity. She has become too worn to focus any energy towards that monster.
“She perished in the Battle of King’s Landing,” the old woman says with a hint of a smile. Margaery comes to a still; again she has no emotion, but she is content that she is finally dead; how she died is another matter. “Bran Stark is now the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Or six. It’s come to the point where I barely know who our Lord Protector is, or even the number of kingdoms in our realm.”
A sudden chill settles on to her bones. Now this is what winter must have felt like for everyone alive during that long night. She can only imagine a white frost spreading to every nook and corner of Westeros, even reaching as far as to Dorne. The idea of her green lands of the Reach, of Highgarden, buried under layers of freezing snow, disturbs her. More than the environment freezing over, it's the feeling of dread washing upon everyone.
There’s only one question that really matters now. She doesn’t care about the throne, or even what happened beyond the Wall. She holds her breath as she speaks. The fear is apparent in her face and she does not bother to hide it any longer.
“What happened to House Tyrell?”
The old woman takes a look at Margaery, truly. If there was a moment where she thought she would get recognized, it was at this time. Rather than the look of recollection, the old woman gives her an emotion that scares her more than the exposure of her identity; a look of mourning. The mourning of the fallen ruling of a centuries long prosperous House.
Margaery knows the answer before the old woman even opened her mouth.
“With the death of Lady Olenna, the House Tyrell is no more.“
-
Her earliest memories of visiting the small folk was at the Reach itself. Margaery loved going down the flower paths, her handmaidens almost fainting from worry when her dresses would skid on the mud. She would always be right at the tail of Loras, who led the way just as joyous as her.
It was a carefully orchestrated scene of loveliness and prosperity. Happy men working hard in the fields and women smiling while holding their plump babes in their arms. Margaery received their warmth, and she was determined to give it back a thousandfold.
Her kindness was not a sham. She genuinely felt love towards her people, and vice versa. Their scenic livelihood however, was a facade. It was to keep the brightness in Margaery and Loras’ eyes. To make them content with the current state of society.
Despite the attempt, she saw everything; the hardworking men and their injuries from their backbreaking labor to collect the crops. She saw through the smiles of the women, who were exhausted from the chores of the household and their children. Margaery will never forget the first time she saw a child wearing bigger clothes than their body frame, and how common these injustices were if Margaery just looked.
The smallfolk loved House Tyrell regardless. They were not as cruel as the other Great Houses, but there was still much improvement to be done. Margaery will be the queen, and all her promises to them will not be fruitless. She swore it then, and she swears it now.
-
It has been eight years since her supposed demise.
She horrifyingly learns of it after reading a book of a traveling Maester. It was called ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’, and she held her breath with every word. It didn’t contain all the events of the war, but it was enough for her experiences to vividly return to her mind. The earliest mention of her was her failed marriage to Renly. The name feels foreign on her lips, and her eyes move to read about the Purple Wedding, to the events of the Faith, until finally, her destruction.
Eight years ago. When she finished reading the entire thing, it falls out of her lap. Nothing feels real. She looks down to her fingers, and examines them underneath the moonlight. It looks human. She feels human. Part of her expects that at any moment the fully human hand she is looking at will change into a corpse's hand, part bone and rotting flesh. Worst of all, she is afraid someone might look at her and see just that.
The cruel and persistent question that haunts her on most nights comes back: Why wasn’t she dead?
Her bones freeze as cold as winter as her brain wracks on more destructive ideas.
What if she was a wight? What if she brought destruction to the newly birthed peace of the world? What if she died a crueler death than the first?
She doesn’t sleep that night. Not that she does sleep often, due to the recurring nightmares on most nights. It’s different with this one because she feels as if she’s living the nightmare. She has never fully processed the fact that she was dead, and now she was back alive.
But for the world of her, she cannot figure out why. For what? Why was she alive?
All ambition of hers went up in flames the moment she did. Her claim to the throne tumbled down the moment Tommen fell. Her heart broke into millions of irreparable pieces the moment she found out her beloved grandmother died at the hands of her worst enemies. Her house, her family, are all gone.
What is left in the world for Margaery Tyrell?
That is the question she refused to ask herself, but it has always been there, always creeping on the corner of her mind. She feared that if she acknowledged it, she would truly lose herself and everything she believed that made Margaery up. Her house, her ambition, her pride.
When the sun rises, Margaery forces a glimpse of the book again. The opened page is one of the last, and it recalls the events of the first Great Council. It doesn’t take much difficulty to read the large letters of the secession of the North, under Queen Sansa Stark.
Her heart cracks once more. Not in pain, but rather with the swell of pride.
It was in the North where the most magical battles were fought. It was in the North where folklore creatures existed, and the impossible was made possible.
It’s in the North where Sansa is.
Margaery picks up the book and waits for more morning light until she returns it back to the traveling Maester, which is more than enough time for a plan to solidify in her mind.
Her eyes travel around her hut, which has been her home for the past few moon turns. The old woman gave it to her until she can stand back up to her own, or until she can muster the courage to return back to her home. Margaery knew it was the latter just from looking at her eyes, but she has grown to love the village regardless. They fed and clothed her, and in return she offered to watch the children while their parents worked and she helped with the chores for many families.
In a relatively short amount of time, this village has become something she can call home. Her heart still aches when her eyes betrayingly lingered on the silhouette of Highgarden in the distance, but she felt comfortable within the walls of her hut. The walls were riddled with countless of pressed flowers, and it brightly decorated the interior. Even outside, she planted a few flowers when she had the time.
Curiously, she steps off her bed and touches the nearest flower her eyes landed on. It was a hyacinth, from the field she woke up from. The color was still vibrant and strong. She takes it in her palm and simply drops it in the fire of her hearth, which still had a few small but determined flames alive.
The flower drops and it burns and blackens as expected. Margaery didn’t know what she thought would happen, but she held her breath. It felt monumental when she dropped it, and she reached an aching disappointment when nothing happened. She watches for a few more moments, and when she doesn’t reach the conclusion she wanted, her grip on the book slackens.
The morning light is weak, but it’s enough to see clearly. Her disappointment has made her head bow low. She thought perhaps magic might explode in her home, or she might even feel a surge of power within her. She desired nothing wicked, just wanted something to confirm her ideas. Her gaze is cast so low that the only thing she can see was the ground overfilled with hyacinths.
She freezes in her steps.
Margaery looks around, and she blinks to make sure her eyes aren’t deceiving her. Her home is now completely encircled with the bright popping colors of blues and purples. The ground her home was built upon was now green and plush, with not a brown crack in sight. She almost falls to her knees when she looks at her home itself; the straws were no longer limp and defenseless, but rather strong and new. The walls of her home used to be cracked and pale in color, but now it was colorful and durable. It was like everything was reborn.
She doesn’t let go of the book when she runs back inside. She finds the hearth fiery and bursting alive, the flames almost reaching as high as it can without burning everything down. Her eyes look around and everything has been refurbished and brand new. The only thing that remained were the pressed flowers on her walls, and it looked like weapons in an armory.
Margaery can barely breathe now. She is overwhelmed with ideas and thoughts and maybe something she can finally call an answer.
That morning, she leaves under a brand new cloak, with a dress that is perfectly tailored to her. She daresay it fit better than what her many seamstresses once made for her, but that is far from her worries. Her clothes are simple but durable. It was the perfect material for the cold North, and she knows it’s more than sufficient.
Margaery doesn’t stay long enough to say goodbye to the villagers, but she leaves piles of fruits and vegetables, more than enough to feed this village for months. On top of it all, a symbol of the Tyrell rose sits on top of the mount. The amount of food nearly drowns out the sacks of gold underneath.
After all, there are better things in life than money.
-
There are not enough things in the world that can bring the glint back into Sansa’s eyes, and Margaery has worked tirelessly to become one of the few. She has done walks in the garden, lingering touches of affection, and gentle and soothing words to help her too many bruises.
She still hasn’t achieved her goal until the moment she mentions the North.
“Tell me about it,” Margaery asks, completely enamoured of the sight of Sansa underneath the hot southern sun. They’re sitting on the grass, and she knows there are no eyes on them, she made sure of it. But Sansa still fidgets, her nerves already seizing in her throat until Margaery lays a gentle hand on top of her own.
A thumb circles her palm and just like that, Sansa melts into her touch.
“It’s cold,” she says at first. Her voice is distant, as if she is as far away as the North. “You must always wear layers upon layers. Wear boots reaching the knee or else you’ll freeze your toes off. The food isn’t as nice as well since we can only have so much imported. It wasn’t all that pleasant.”
This was not the answer Margaery expected. She was about to respond, but Sansa beat her with a fervor she didn’t know she had.
“The snow was perfect for making a miniature Winterfell and other sorts. We always made one after we had our snowball fights. The layers and the boots were so warm it reached my bones until I nearly forgot the white winds outside. And if ever we got sick, the food Old Nan used to make would cure us within a moon’s turn.”
The way her words perfectly molded the way she described the North made it feel like Margaery herself was there, with Sansa. She saw the proud and tall walls of Winterfell. She felt the snowflakes dance around her. Margaery never saw snow once in her life, but after listening to Sansa, she feels capable enough to describe it almost genuinely.
“The Cusp between Winter and Spring is the most beautiful. I was born after the last one, but it is an event that all in the North yearn for. A celebration of the winter’s end, of hardship.”
The distant look in Sansa’s eyes reflected happiness, and underneath that, regret. Still, just talking about it seemed to bring that glint she longed for so deeply, so Margaery didn’t care.
“I'll be there, sweet girl. We both will.” An explicit promise was not uttered, but it was still there regardless. Sansa did not look as hopeful as she wanted, and that only made Margaery want to fulfill it even more. She wanted Sansa to be happy, so happy that she forgot all her worries.
She pressed her lips against hers, unable to further restraint herself any longer. She tasted like lemon cakes, but it did not harbor any of it’s sourness; instead, Margaery reveled in the sweetness from the sugar and her victory with the glint in Sansa’s eyes.
-
More often than not, flowers trail her voyage, much to her amusement.
Margaery takes her sweet time during her trip. This is a second chance to look at all the sights she did not appreciate during her first life. She was blinded by her ambitions, with the false perfect image she had of the crown. She traveled often, but she cannot remember in vivid detail the color of the trees, or the scents of a forest, or even the sounds of the birds.
In this life, she is adamant about every single detail; to the names of her brief companions during her travels to the blueness of the sky. She tries her very best on remembering everything. She meets and befriends people from all over Westeros and she learns of their stories and beginnings; some fought for the Great Houses, some were born after all the disorder.
When they sleep, she packs pressed flowers into their knapsacks, fitting for their life. For those who fought in battles, she gives them violets. For the children who have never seen any violence, she gives them daisies.
She does not know the full extent of her powers- she still doesn't think of it that way- but the sentiments still stand. If her greatest power back then was the smoothness of her words, and her charming and disarming smile, then her greatest power now was meaning through flowers. Even without the magical aspect of it, her intentions are still pure.
Margaery doesn’t tell them to drop it in fire for it to happen. She doesn’t even know if it will work under their hands. It is simply a gift and if it happens to work, then her kindness extends past her words. She keeps a small part of them too; the soldiers protect her until they part ways, and they gift her a dagger for defense. The kids impart her with jokes that can make even the most uptight highborn crack a smile.
With every breath she breathes, the thought of being brought back to life less as a curse, but more so as a second chance. The nights on the road gives her more insight on her situation; perhaps perishing in the Sept was a way the gods were apologizing to her. Maybe this was a long held secret of House Tyrell that was forgotten about and she was just extremely lucky.
Margaery doesn’t know anymore. She came to the North looking for answers, looking for an explanation and assurance that she won’t ruin the world. Instead, she lives a life she didn’t know she was able to live. The smiles reach higher on her face than it ever had even with the most pleasant company back in her other life. She gets more understanding for the people she was clawing to rule.
Behind the flowers she leaves behind, the people remember her as the Rose. Whispers of her great beauty and kindness reaches popular inns, and some even go out of their way to stand near the road she is known to travel on. They offer her a place to stay for the night, food to fill her stomach, and even a horse for a quicker and more comfortable travel. They offer it to please her, so they can be on the receiving end of her beautiful smile.
It doesn’t take long for them to realize they don’t have to do anything for her to be given the prized smile of the Rose. Margaery offers them a place next to her shelter at nights by the road. She unworriedly gives them her food she hunted and collected. If they have the time and don’t mind the distance, she gives them her attention while walking towards the North.
Without even trying, without even a single ounce of power in her name, Margaery has charmed the entirety of Westeros.
After finally almost a year of travels, she makes it in front of the tall and proud walls of Winterfell. There is already a crowd of people waiting for her, tripping over each other to catch a glimpse of her beauty.
Margaery is past the point of caring if someone would recognize her; yes she still holds a fear deep within her that her House’s old enemies will come for her, but she still continues on. Life is too short to live in the shadow of fright when there is so much more to see, to experience. So far, she has not heard the mention of Tyrell in any of the crowds she attracts so often. But she wouldn’t be shocked if someone knew of her true existence; actually she would be more shocked if her name hasn’t been brought up recently among the court. She suspects it would be foolish to sought out someone thought to be dead for years.
Maybe that’s the reason Sansa didn’t come out to greet her. Margaery soon then laughs at her own arrogance; the Queen in the North has more pressing matters than the beautiful globetrotter who traveled to her home.
After dining with the people who sought her company, she bids them an early release. Now that she was finally at her destination, Margaery seeked to do the thing she came to do, Something that kept her awake in anticipation.
Within the walls of Winterfell, she searches for an area free of any activity with snow that has been untouched. She lands on her knees, and although the snow is deep, Margaery knows that this cold was considered next to nothing to everyone that lived here. There are no snowflakes, not even the white winds that Southerners often scorned at. It was just the snow.
And that was enough for her.
Margaery knew no flowers would be able to grow here. When she reaches out to the ground, she cups the snow. Her gloves protect her little from the biting cold, but she still holds it, smiling as she looks down.
Carefully, she flattens the ground so she can make the foundations of Highgarden. The echo of Sansa’s words of her building a miniature snow castle of Winterfell is loud and pounding in her mind. She would recreate it for her, but she has only been in Winterfell for a mere couple of hours. She had lived in Highgarden for a majority of her life.
Under the dim light, the walls of Highgarden comes to life. She is not an artist and thus cannot make it an exact replica, but to her joy, the model does not completely fail. The necessary towers are there, and the perimeter is more or less accurate. The idea to crush some petals over the snow warms her freezing body, and she nearly cries in joy when she looks at her home.
This is what Sansa felt all those years ago when she spoke about the North to her. Margaery is worlds away from her former situation, but they are still barely similar, like hanging together by a single thread. This drive to go home bubbles uncontrollably in her chest, the strongest it’s been since she came back.
The image of Highgarden doesn’t come to mind when she thinks of home. Instead, Margaery feels the warm southern sun casted over Sansa, her auburn hair over her shoulder and her deep blue eyes glinting in unabashed happiness towards her.
After memorizing every little thing of her current scene, Margaery stands. She looks back often at the peaceful structure of Highgarden. The sun is still high in the sky despite the lateness of the hour, which she almost knows for a fact to be odd in the North.
Still, she hopes Sansa isn’t attending to too much. Her presence can only cause an uproar, and she would rather have it at a more personal area rather than the court itself.
“Is Queen Sansa still accepting hearings?” Margaery asks the nearest guard.
She hasn’t needed to use her most charming smile in a while, but she needed assurance of guarantee access to see her. She wouldn’t say her travels would be futile if she couldn’t, but she would be greatly and extremely saddened. She would still find a way to see Sansa, but at any slightest inconvenience, she would annoyingly huff and puff.
“For what reason?” the guard asks gruffly, but not unkind.
“To fulfill a promise. The Cusp of Winter and Spring is near, isn’t it?” She is too good for her voice to waver with emotion, but it doesn’t stop the tidal wave of emotions within her.
At the mention of the Cusp, the guard’s face softens drastically. It must be monumental for a northerner to melt. Very suddenly the guard sizes her up from head to toe with a strict gaze. His grip on his sword tightens at the slightest, and for a horrifying second, she thinks she might be thrown into a freezing cell.
Then as quick as his previous action, he turns to his heel without saying anything. She is too accustomed to people to know that he wants her to follow him.
Inside the halls, the warmth already seeps its way to her bones. She is not a stranger to large castles, but the length and speed of their pace almost leaves her out of breath. They finally stop in front of two large doors, in which another guard waits outside. The two exchange quick murmurs, and the other guard also takes a scrutinizing look of her.
There’s a tense second before the door opens, and she is allowed inside. Her breath is in her throat as she walks in, and the first thing she notices is the fiery warmth of the Great Hall. More than anything, it is that she feels first and foremost. The sun from outside is grey and pale in comparison to the lively hearth from behind the North’s throne. A small part of her feels how akin the warmth of the Great Hall is to the southern sun on her skin from that day.
She is not in the South more so than the Sansa she is looking at is the girl from before.
Margaery bends down to her knee, and awaits for her signal to rise. However, it’s just that- she doesn’t hear it. Nothing but the crackles of fire. She’s about to get worried and she lifts her head up, but she hears the voice she’s been yearning for so long first. The one she’s been dreaming about since when she was asleep in the field; even long before that, within her confinement in King’s Landing.
Sansa is the one that had given her strength to continue during the long journey to the North. To home.
“Margaery?”
When she looks up to Sansa, it is a queen she looks at. Her crown sits on top of her head, two direwolves howling in victory. Everything about the scene is simple but regal; there are no fake glamour to hide behind. This is pure power, and Sansa effortlessly basks in it. The control she has in the room is as straightforward as the respect she holds from everyone.
“Your grace,” Margaery responds, still kneeling. She would kneel for centuries, if it meant that Sansa would continue to look at her like that.
Like that as if Margaery stopped the entire world, and clutched it in her hand. Like that as if Margaery held the fire that had helped mankind from the harshest winters the world has ever faced. Like that as if during the time when Margaery gazed at Sansa the moment she realized that if there was one thing she could love more than being the queen, it was the girl who loved lemon cakes unabashedly in the light of being accused of treason.
When Sansa stood up from her throne, it was not shaky. She still had the air of command around her; that was unquestionable. The steps she took towards Margaery felt like an eternity, but there was not a moment their eyes broke free from one another. No one existed in the Great Hall except for them. Neither cared that dozens of eyes were watching with wonder; who was the woman kneeling and how much power did she have over their Queen?
The only thing that mattered was that Sansa’s touch was still gentle on Margaery. She didn’t say anything as she tugged for her to stand. Nothing in the world could have happened to both of them to stop the emotions swirling and striking them, consecutively. Powerfully.
It only took the briefest of seconds for Sansa to crash into Margaery, her arms holding her so tightly that the pain of a thousand thorns on Margaery’s skin comes back for a split moment. Her eyes prickled with tears and she didn’t know if it was from the pain or the emotion. Margaery held Sansa as well, trying to get as close to her as humanly possible.
“Hello,” Margaery mumbles into the skin of Sansa’s neck. Her trembles can mean she was also crying, or laughing from her response. With the sound of her wet chuckling, it can be concluded as both.
“You’re back”, Sansa says breathlessly. Margaery can listen to her for hundreds of years. There is next to nothing in the world she wouldn’t do for her. “You’re here.”
“Yes, sweet girl,” The nickname is so full of everything good that it nearly makes her knees buckle with how much it overwhelmed her. Sansa embraces her tighter at the mention of it. “I'm here.”
The sun from the windows capture the both of them in its warm grasp.
And they plan to never leave it. Never again.
-
There was nothing in the world that made Sansa want to remember King’s Landing. Every possession that even made her remember the slightest detail was thrown at the fire; clothing, jewelry, items.
All but one thing.
It was given to her as a gift. It’s hard to admit that there was anything beautiful about King’s Landing after what she experienced, but she can never refuse the fact that Margaery Tyrell changed everything. Her touches, her kisses, her words. She retained some bit of Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the girl who thought of love as the best of everything.
She is not that girl anymore, but when she looks at the flower who has gone through almost exactly as much as Sansa did, a part of her begs to differ.
She is sitting in her solar, fortunately alone. Her workplace is scattered with paperwork and messages and it is so much that she should have nothing in her mind except for the North. For her home, her kingdom. That is why she refuses to care about the recent and offhand message about the clearing of the rubble of the Sept of Baelor.
The North needs her, just like how she needs the North.
But Margaery Tyrell’s sleeping figure is all she can think about. Her honey brown curls laying around her face, underneath the southern sun in the early morning. Her face, so relaxed and innocent, even though the latter was the last thing anyone would describe her as.
Her arm was slung over Sansa’s waist, her head facing towards her. Sansa can remember the pace of Margaery’s breathing, and the warmth of her skin. Their legs were tangled comfortably, and in her hair were flower petals from the night before.
Margaery had given her a blue winter rose. A memoir from the North. Anyone who wasn’t the two of them would immediately think of treason if they saw it, and Sansa’s heart swelled in love when she realizes that Margaery risked her own safety for something like her.
It has been so long since that morning. Sansa is six and twenty. She is a queen.
And Margaery Tyrell is not a slumbering girl underneath the sun; she is ashes.
Maybe that’s the reason why Sansa has kept her rose for so long; she did not want it to suffer the same fate its original owner had. The edges of the petals are wilting, from its long age and the countless of journeys and hardships Sansa has gone through with the rose. But the blue color is still there, the color of frost, and Sansa cannot find it in her to burn it. There is an infinity of ways to discard it, but Sansa keeps it in her most treasured items, refusing to let go of the best memories she had from her life.
She allows herself that. The North can have her, body and soul, but her heart will always remain with the sleeping girl who had petals in her hair.
-
There is almost no need for the raven from the Citadel signifying the end of winter when the Northerners naturally feel it in their blood. The change in the wind and the increasing of the hunt is enough of a sign that winter has ended.
The final indicator are the Gods Lights. It was bright green with bits of red glowing in the sky, vividly and magically. The entire sky was enveloped with this glow, and every man, woman, and child alike went out of their homes to watch this phenomenon. Elders recount this has been the strongest it's ever been during their lifetimes, and everyone agrees it’s because of how particularly hard this winter has been.
The Gods Lights also has a certain tradition of being almost as holy as the weirwood. No one talks of it like it was nothing; Northerners believed that the lights were the Gods showing themselves to mortals, in the briefest of moments they’re allowed. It symbolizes the end of hardship since it only shows at the end of winter. It is one of the most important events in the North.
“It’s fitting how the Rose of Westeros brought spring and the Gods Lights upon her arrival,” Sansa muses, her eyes glued up above. It’s just the two of them, with arguably the best view of the spectacle. No guard, no lord, no one to bother them.
“Certainly not as memorable as the Queen of the North watching her first Cusp.”
There’s a lightness to both of their words. Sansa then moves her gaze from the sky, Her face is so unbelievably soft and full of joy. Margaery is suddenly reminded of how the guard looked when she mentioned the Cusp, and she only now realizes how important this event was to the Northerners, from smallfolk to highborn alike. The implication of her bringing spring is a great honor, especially coming from the queen herself.
“Do you remember that day in King’s Landing?“ Under the green glow she can see Sansa’s pale cheeks turn pink, and she’s almost certain it’s not from the cold. “The day you first kissed me.”
Margaery feels a slow smile spread across her face, growing as she recounts every detail of that moment with ease.
“That very day is what gave me the strength to come here,” she confesses. Her words come out without thought. All of it was all heart. “When it comes to you, Sansa, I mean everything I say.”
For the few days since Margaery has arrived, she has been careful with her affections. In the back of her mind, she thinks that’s laughable considering they have been almost stuck at the hip at all times. When Sansa isn’t attending to extremely dire queenly duties, she is accompanied by Margaery in her solar, where they both ignore the stacks of paperwork that can be avoided for yet another minute.
All they do is talk and talk. Sometimes it’s important, like what Daenerys Targaryen was truly like, or where the rest of the Stark siblings were about. Sometimes it was complete buffoonery, like the jokes Margaery learned on the road or who the worst smelling lord in the North was.
This is the first time the mention of King’s Landing is brought up. Fortunately, it was a pleasant memory; one of the best there was.
Sansa stares at Margaery, a look full of longing and perhaps hope. She is yet reminded that Sansa is a woman, fully grown. She has experienced things that could break people. Things that were unimaginable, the cruelest. There should have been no question that Sansa did not trust Margaery, at least not yet, but she looked at her as if Margaery was her lifeline.
“I missed you,” Sansa says simply, heartbreakingly. Her blue eyes are fierce, but unguarded. She is offering something monumental to Margaery, and it is her heart.
Just as importantly, the glint sparkles in her eyes and Margaery’s breath stops as she pushes herself up her toes to kiss her lips. The Gods Lights could have shined for eternity and she would have paid it no attention because she would rather be looking at Sansa and the glint, the one that she caused.
It is all Sansa she can taste and she doesn’t mind at all. How can this be a curse when the feeling of her lips against hers feels like a blessing? When the woman she loved most in the world loved her back?
There is a reason she came back into this world. One more thing left for Margaery Tyrell.
“I love you, Sansa,” Margaery speaks just barely a wisp away from her lips. Their foreheads rest against each other, and Sansa’s arms around Margaery’s waist tightens.
The words come out before she can think about it. She doesn’t think about what it might mean to Sansa; what it certainly means for Margaery. By saying this, Margaery has wholly and impulsively given her life an entire different spin. Sansa’s eyes widen, and Margaery realizes she will never regret those words. Not when they’re here, together, alive, through the worst of their circumstances.
The Gods Lights fall on the both of them, and again, they’re the only two in the moment. In the entire world. The green color of the lights is almost the same exact shade of wildfire but her skin does not tingle from the memory of pain. Nothing can ever take this moment away from the both of them.
Sansa closes her eyes and for the tiniest of seconds, Margaery fears that she misread this entire situation. A hand softly grazes Margaery’s face, and the tenderness of the touch erases all doubt Margaery could ever have about Sansa’s feelings about her.
Sansa kisses her again, softly. There’s a thousand more meanings in that kiss, but only one is said, and it was the most important one.
“I love you too, Margaery,” she says, so genuinely that Margaery feels fresh tears veil her eyes. “When you kissed me that day, you saved my life, in more ways than I can explain.”
Margaery closes her eyes at the mention of Sansa’s pain during that time. Sansa shakes her head gently, her hand tipping her chin so she can look at Margaery in the eyes. There was no hurt or despair from the past in Sansa’s eyes, only gratitude and joy.
“I never thanked you for your kindness,” Margaery can see this is something Sansa felt she had to do. The regret in her voice slightly blended into her words, but it does not take control of the meaning. “Back then, you were one of the only things that truly made everything worth it.”
Her heart bursts in her chest because how can Margaery ever explain that this is her situation now. It would be selfish to say that Margaery has almost nothing to live for, but everything compared to Sansa feels like nothing.
“And I you,” Margaery presses. “Thank you, Sansa.”
For being a reminder that innocence still has a place in the world.
For showing that people can still rise from the most miserable of places.
For assuring me that Margaery Tyrell, not the Rose, can still be loved.
Her gift to Sansa is nothing compared to the things Sansa can give her. Still, her breath is taken away when she puts a fully bloomed blue winter rose on her ear. A reminder from the past. Margaery wonders if Sansa still has the last one she gave her.
“The Rose giving me a rose,” Sansa murmurs lovingly after taking her close into her arms. “Westeros must be fuming in jealousy.”
Margaery chuckles. She thinks they don’t have a reason to be, since for almost a year it was all that she gave. Still, she isn’t stingy; Will not be. She’ll give flowers to those who are kind, no matter from where they came from. She has more than enough in the world, and she suspects the world will need it to grow strong. It is spring after all.
“If they must feel jealousy, it would be to me,” Margaery replies. Her words slip like honey, a part of her that cannot disappear. “For they are not in the arms of the most stunning woman in the whole of Westeros.”
In the snow, her flowers would never grow. Margaery feels the warmth from Sansa, and the white winds that so infamously coat the North has settled into a comfortable breeze. The Gods Lights illuminate the night, and they stay together until dawn, holding each other, enjoying lost company.
In the spring, it is a different story. Margaery is of House Tyrell; it is in her blood to grow strong. She feels the tickle of the rose petal near her cheek. She has something more powerful than the ugly chair can ever offer her.
But for now, she is content in the arms of the woman she loves. She is content with everything. Margaery has work to do, but she would rather stay underneath the winter sun, with a single flower.
In the end, she supposes that is what’s left in the world for her. Not that she is complaining; it is her blessing that she happily lives. She knows that the North will never be a field full of flowers, like where she was reborn, so she puts her energy into something she knows will grow.
The blue winter rose bushes are the one of the prides of the North. It may have grown in spring, but nobody doubts that it can survive in winter.
Margaery makes sure of it.