AN: Entering the final stretch. Hoping to close out this project before the end of the year. Tried to have this chapter ready last month, but life got in the way. Sorry for the long wait!
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It was a page who brought the news.
The young noble boy came while the Queen and her friends broke their fast to deliver the message that the Tyrell host had finally arrived. Lannister riders had spotted them some miles beyond the walls of King’s Landing. It must have taken word an hour or more to reach the Red Keep. By now, the Reachmen army had only drawn closer.
The Queen put on the face of delighted surprise - but Ser Damon knew the truth of her excitement. She had commanded Lord Mace to summon his army capital and so the Reachmen had dutifully arrived… and if the plump lickspittle was a true servant of the crown as he claimed, he had bid they bring with them the young maiden Margaery. The Rose of Highgarden, so she was named. A beauty without peer, others dared to say.
“We will see how beautiful she is, screaming her throat ragged.” Lady Taena had whispered into the Queen’s ear just the night before. The thought had enticed her, Ser Damon saw. It certainly enticed him.
The royal welcoming party organized quickly on such a small notice, admirably so. Dozens and dozens of lords and ladies, knights and men-at-arms, retainers young and old, all pouring into the white marble plaza just outside the Great Sept of Baelor. And at their backs, hundreds and hundreds of smallfolk, all eager to see the spectacle of a royal welcome… and a Tyrell arrival.
It was past midday when the golden banners of Highgarden came riding through the plaza. A procession of horses led the way, riding together in pairs but for the lone steed at the head carrying a man who could be none other than Lord Mace Tyrell, who had gone with a small party to receive his men and his daughter miles outside the city gates. And such splendid armor he wore! The breastplate was gilded with gold, polished to a perfect shine, with a dozen encrusted jewels twinkling beneath the sun. His men at arms were adorned in similar finery, cloaks of green and gold flying like their banners as they rode forth like the knights of song.
“They offer a good show, these Reachmen.” Ser Damon stood near his Queen, speaking softly under his breath.
Cersei’s seat was carved and polished elm, painted white and cushioned for comfort. Standing near in dutiful silence were the four men who carried her here - and who were awaiting the order to carry her all the way back. The men said nothing. It was not their place to speak.
“What else can they offer but pomp?” His lioness muttered back as she watched the plaza fill with more Tyrell riders. “Eighty thousand green boys in spotless armor. These summer knights are prettier than their ladies.”
The gathering smallfolk had begun to cheer, but Ser Damon still caught the distaste on his queen’s lips. He glanced aside, seeing in her eyes how badly she wanted to sneer. It brought a grin to his face. Such had become part of his queen’s charm.
“Lady Margaery is said to be a great beauty, is she not?” He reminded her, doing well to mask the teasing in his words.
“Fools say many things.”
“Though not near as great a beauty as you, Your Grace. No woman in the Seven Kingdoms can compare.” He added, most innocently.
“I would take your tongue, Ser, were it not so blessed by the bloody gods.” Cersei hissed quietly.
“Of course, Your Grace. There has never been a Queen more merciful.”
The Queen gave a scoff and nothing more. She kept her gaze ahead, her focus fixed on the lofty Lord Tyrell riding up on his armored steed - polished and shining just as he was. Up close, though, Lord Tyrell made for a much less impressive sight. His moustache poked out from under his helm, waxed and curled and neat, and the red fullness of his cheeks came forth like rose petals. And there was not a suit of armor in all the Seven Kingdoms that could hide how portly the man was.
“Your Grace!” Lord Tyrell called out in his best affectation of a lordly greeting. He trotted up close to the foot of the wooden dais, bowing his head as he came before Queen Cersei. “House Tyrell is greatly honored by your most generous invitation. I commanded my men to depart from Highgarden as quickly as they were able. I pray that their punctuality is to your satisfaction, Your Grace - though eighty thousand men do not move so quickly, I’m afraid.” He swept his arm out wide, presenting all the mounted men riding in behind him. “Yet here they are! The strength of Highgarden is at your command, my Queen!”
“As they should be.” Cersei spoke coolly, though not without some satisfaction.
A bustle of excitement spread through the crowd then and caught the Queen’s attention. There at the rear of the procession came a wheelhouse drawn by a dozen horses. So splendid a sight it made, painted beautifully in green and gilded in gold. The smallfolk could only cry out in wonder. To the Queen and her loyal sword, however, it was obvious who rode within.
“You have brought your daughter.” Cersei noted. There was expectation in her voice. That, Lord Tyrell did not miss.
“Yes. As you bid, my Queen.” The portly man finally removed his helm, revealing a balding head and a face flecked with sweat. “My dear Margaery told me she was ecstatic at the news that noble Queen Cersei had asked for her presence personally.”
As two men came to help Lord Tyrell dismount from his horse, the wheelhouse came to a stop some distance behind them, resting at the center of the plaza. Immediately there came more Tyrell retainers, laying out a carpet in the house colors as well as a wooden stepstool by the carriage door. The crowd awaited and so did the Queen. Ser Damon, too, felt the stirring of anticipation.
The wheelhouse door opened and a young woman came forth into the midday sun. A beauty, as Ser Damon expected, with fair skin and rosy cheeks like her father - though she was far more suited for them. She was not dark and sensual like Taena or voluptuous like the Queen, but there was appeal in her delicate features. She was sweetfaced with a smile that almost looked shy. Her eyes were big and brown, soft like the rest of her, and her hair came down in long, chestnut curls. Ser Damon once might have called her the very image of the maiden’s beauty. Once, before he became a Queen’s man.
Still, it was all too easy for him to imagine this Lady of Highgarden flat on her back, all that lovely hair flung out across the bedsheets, and that pretty face of hers all sweaty and flushed pink from exertion, twisting pleasure as she writhed and squealed beneath him.
“Ecstatic, you say?” Cersei repeated, humming softly. Her eyes weren’t on Lord Mace, but on his daughter, watching her as she drew closer and closer to the dais.
“Why, I’ve never seen the girl more excited!” The portly lord let out a guffaw so loud Ser Damon thought he could see the man’s belly trembling beneath that gilded breastplate.
“We mustn’t disappoint her, then.” The Queen stood from her opulent seat, looking so radiant in her gown of Lannister red. “King’s Landing is open to your grand host, Lord Tyrell. Continue to serve the crown well and the crown will nourish you in turn.”
“My Queen. Thank you for your generosity.”
Lord Tyrell went down to one knee, dipping his head low in obeisance. It was a grand gesture - as unsuited to the man as his sparkling armor. A glance aside told Ser Damon his queen thought much the same, but the woman kept her sharp tongue sheathed.
The Lady Margaery finally reached them then, taking a bow beside her lord father. Ser Damon could see her more clearly now. He appreciated the young woman further, taking interest in the faint plumpness of her lips and the smoothness of her fair skin. She was more slender than Cersei or Taena, but the bastard knight did not mind. Her breasts might have been smaller, but he’d fill his hands with them all the same.
There was a fleeting moment when he met her eyes. Big, brown, and shining, looking right back into his. There was sweetness there, as well as cunning. And there was something else there, too. A fraction of a second was all it took for Ser Damon to understand that the young maid of Highgarden was not so innocent.
“Lady Margaery.” Cersei greeted with a well-practiced smile. “It is true what they say. You are a pretty one.”
“You flatter me, my Queen.” Lord Tyrell’s daughter had a gentle voice. Soft like flower petals. Ser Damon already was imagining how it would sound pitched high and throaty and full of passion. “I pledge to serve you, as my father has. What do you wish of me?”
Cersei wore the face of a woman pleased, but Damon knew it shrouded wicked thoughts. Thoughts like his own. The Queen beckoned her loyal subjects to stand and so lord and daughter rose to their feet.
“What do I wish of you…” Cersei mused. “Tonight, it will be the pleasure of your company. You will sit beside me at our evening feast. I wish to know more about the young Rose of Highgarden.”
“You will find her splendid company, Your Grace.” Lord Tyrell smiled proudly. Meanwhile, his daughter gave another bow of her head.
“I look forward to supping with you, my Queen.”
The pleasantries were over soon after. The crowd became a bustle as hundreds of knights and retainers poured slowly out of the Great Sept plaza. It had been quite the gathering for but a simple welcome, yet that was the way of these noble lords. Ser Damon couldn’t help but wonder why they didn’t simply greet them back at the castle.
A small moment of frustration… but it faded quickly when he shared a look with his golden queen. The faint smirk toying at her lovely mouth promised him much and more.
“Another flower for you to pluck.” She whispered to him before settling back into her opulent chair.
“I’d rather we pluck her together.” He murmured back, just before four men came to take hold of the posts beneath her palanquin seat.
Cersei said nothing as they lifted her up, but Damon saw the look she wore. The sinful glint in her emerald eyes. Oh how he had come to adore the woman’s devious glee.
- - -
There followed even more pomp and festivities as the Knights of Summer flooded through the city gates. By the evening, there was not a single tavern or whorehouse that wasn’t overflowing with men and gold. Yet it was the Red Keep that bustled beyond them all.
A feast, the Queen announced. An extravagant feast to welcome Lady Margaery, held in the great hall itself. Lords and ladies gorged themselves on cuts of boar, beef stewed with mushrooms and onions, racks of roasted ribs, nuts and dragon peppers and lemon cakes, washing it all down with Arbor red.
Ser Damon did not partake. Instead, he stood guard as a royal sworn sword was like to do. His meal would come later, in the privacy of his quarters. Or the queen’s.
How could he envy these high lords and ladies when a much richer feast awaited him after sundown?
Until then, he did his duty. Stood guard behind the Queen as she sat with the young Lady Margaery and Taena Merryweather. Poor girl, he thought, circled by a lioness and her sultry shadow. Though Damon had to wonder, remembering the glint he’d seen in the Tyrell girl’s eye, that she might have some idea of the Queen’s designs for her.
For now, Ser Damon simply watched and listened.
“Try the swan, my dear. A much better roast than the venison.” Cersei’s suggestion was warm and gentle and left no room for argument. Indeed, before Lady Margaery could say a word, a servant was delivering a cut of swan onto her plate.
“Oh!” The young woman smiled graciously before tentatively cutting into the meat.
On her other side, Lady Taena let out a rich laugh.
“The Lady Tyrell looks overwhelmed, Your Grace.” The Myrish beauty plucked a grape from the platter before her, popping it into her mouth. She turned her dark eyes onto Lady Margaery. “Do they not have grand feasts such as this at Highgarden?”
“My Lord father has hosted many feasts, Your Grace.” She answered unoffended. Polite and proper, as ladies were taught to be.
“Then what troubles you, sweetling?” The Queen asked.
“Nothing, Your Grace. I have never been to King’s Landing before. This is the first time in my life I have seen the Red Keep, the Great Sept… It is the first time I have met royalty.”
“You were pledged to wed Renly Baratheon. Before his death.” A hardness had come to the Queen’s voice, yet the words were not sharp. Not yet, anyway.
“My father pledged my hand, Your Grace.” Lady Margaery answered easily and calmly. “I had no choice in the matter. And Renly Baratheon was no true royalty. He had no claim to the throne. He was an usurper.”
“Smart girl.” Cersei had the tone of satisfaction, yet Damon could only imagine the predatory gleam in the woman’s eyes.
“Pssshh.” Lady Taena scoffed. “She is no girl, my Queen.”
“No, of course not. I see a woman grown. A flower in full bloom, as they say.”
“I took no offense-”
“How old are you, Lady Margaery?” The Queen went on as if she hadn’t heard her.
“...I am eighteen, Your Grace.” The younger woman set down her knife and fork, no doubt realizing that the Queen had no interest in feasting then.
“Hmm. Were it not for Renly’s death, he would have made you his wife a hundred times over by now. It surprises me that your lord father has yet to marry you off to some other high lord.”
“My father carries the weight of lordship, not just of Highgarden but of all the Reach and the Mander. It is not my place to question his decisions, Your Grace.” It was quite the thing, to hear a woman balance humility and surety. “And the complexities of politics are beyond me, truly.”
Ser Damon had to grin. And from the amusement he could hear in her voice, so did Cersei.
“He brought you into the warm embrace of the crown.” The Queen told her newest plaything. “As he should have done from the start. Perhaps one day you will thank him.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Of course.”
Lady Margaery took a sip of wine next. A large sip. From his spot standing near the Queen, he managed to meet her fleeting gaze. It was only a short moment of her looking at him, but he took the chance to offer a friendly smile. Improper from a man of his standing, but the young maiden of House Tyrell returned his smile anyway. Hers was small however, and Ser Damon saw in her expression the faintest sliver of unease. Far from surprising for a young woman flanked by temptresses who were all but ready to devour her.
Ser Damon almost felt sorry for what was to come next.